


Like a Nail to a Cross

by azazelsocks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (a lot of blasphemy), Abusive Relationships, Animal Sacrifice, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Baptism, Blasphemy, Bottom Sam Winchester, Cannibalism, Castiel as God, Collars, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Nudity, Forced Orgasm, Hallucifer, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Non-consensual everything, Past Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Past Torture, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, Soulfisting, whorephobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azazelsocks/pseuds/azazelsocks
Summary: “I want what any god wants,” Castiel said. “I want you. Your life, your soul, your devotion. Everything you have to give belongs to me, your God. In exchange, your family will be safe.”There really was no other answer. “I agree,” Sam said.The new God orders the Winchesters to kneel or be destroyed, and Sam, as always, will do anything to save his brother.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, to the surprise of no one, Sam offers himself up in exchange for his brother's life

He could still feel the weight of Raphael's blade in his hand, even though he'd let go of it, buried it in his best friend’s back. It was about all he could feel over the terror clogging his throat as Castiel reached behind himself and pulled the knife out with ease. There was no blood, no flash of grace. Lucifer cackled— _You really thought that would work, Sam?_

“I'm glad you made it, Sam,” Castiel said. “But the angel blade won't work, because I'm not an angel anymore.”

Sam swallowed, casting a glance at Dean standing alone on the other side of the room. There was no one coming to back them up—Bobby had been knocked out when the Impala flipped, and the situation had been urgent enough that both Winchesters had had to leave him behind. There was just Sam, and Sam's rescue plan A had just failed spectacularly.

He didn't have a plan B. “Then what are you?” he forced out, throat dry.

“I'm your new God. A better one.”

“Considering the last one was a giant douchebag, ‘better’ isn’t that much of an endorsement,” Dean bit out before Sam could say anything else, his shoulders tensed for a fight.

Sam flinched, prepared for the worst, but Castiel just smiled beneficently. The lack of response was starting to put Sam more on edge than before. Dean wasn’t helping either, because the look on his face was the one he wore whenever he was gearing up to do or say something incredibly stupid, and the atmosphere was way too tense for stupid right now. _He’s probably going to get both of you killed_ , Lucifer mused, and that plus the silence was too much for Sam. “What do you want?” he blurted out.

If anything, Castiel’s smile got bigger. “Bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord, or I shall destroy you.”

“Oh, _fuck_ no,” Dean snarled, and Sam’s heart dropped. The floor was still slick with Raphael’s blood, and Dean was going to play it like this? “C’mon, Cas, you can’t be serious.”

Castiel’s expression hardened, and he took a step forward.

“No, no, wait!” Sam flung himself across the room, between his brother and the vengeful god staring them both down. His knees hit the concrete hard, and he winced, ignoring Dean’s shocked cry of “Sam!”

Castiel paused, head tilted as he looked at Sam like he was a bug that had just done something fascinating.

“Don’t hurt him,” Sam begged, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t. Please.”

“Sam, what are you doing,” Dean hissed.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Sam hissed back, focused on Castiel.

“What _are_ you doing, Sam?” Castiel asked.

Sam shifted, trying to get his knees under himself more comfortably. “What—what you wanted. I’ll bow, profess my love, anything you want, I swear, just don’t smite Dean. Let him go. Please.”

“Sam,” Dean started. Castiel twitched his hand and Dean abruptly cut off, voice gone.

“You are trying to trade yourself for your brother,” Castiel said. He did not sound very surprised. Sam nodded, ignoring Lucifer making the walls drip blood and Dean in his peripheral vision gesturing violently at both of them. “I am under no obligation to negotiate with you,” Castiel mused, ignoring Dean. “I could take both of you by force or destroy you with a word. You, Sam, stabbed me in the back. I should be satisfied with nothing less than complete compliance from both of you.”

Sam swallowed and didn’t move, though his arms were shaking with exhaustion now. If this failed, he was out of cards. Castiel was right: he had nothing to bargain with, not really. Just one broken, Cage-cracked soul—and the hope that maybe, just maybe, their friendship still meant something to whatever Castiel was now.

“Then again,” Castiel said finally, “submission is meaningless if unwilling. I accept your bargain, Sam. Swear your allegiance and I will let Dean go free.”

Sam nearly collapsed with relief. He would have, but Castiel’s grace wrapped around him, supporting him before he fell. “Anything. I swear. I swear on my life. Thank you.”

Castiel stepped closer and passed his hand over Sam’s forehead, tucking a stray piece of sweaty hair behind Sam’s ear as he did so. A flood of grace cleared his headache and dampened the background panic that had gripped Sam since waking up with his soul returned, and Lucifer disappeared. Sam let out a shocked breath, hands falling to his sides at the unexpected cessation of pain.

Castiel’s hold on Dean’s voice must have loosened then, because the next thing Sam heard was Dean, saying “Fuck no. I’m not leaving. I didn’t agree to this deal—”

“You’re right. We had a different deal, which was that I would save Sam if you stood down. I have done so despite your failure to hold up your end of the agreement,” Castiel said coldly, stroking his hand through Sam’s hair. “Your brother is trying to save your life. Are you going to throw it away again just like that?”

Sam shifted so he could meet Dean’s eyes, pleading silently for him to shut up and get the fuck out of there. Dean’s mouth fell open slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was really happening, but at last he muttered, “Fine. Fine, I agree. No funny business from me.”

Castiel snapped his fingers, and Dean disappeared from the room. Sam’s breath caught, and he struggled to his feet. “Is he—”

“Dean is fine. He has been returned to the Impala,” Castiel said. “She is whole and upright, and he will find inside that Bobby Singer has been healed of the injuries he sustained from the crash.”

But Castiel hadn’t sent Sam back with Dean. Sam swallowed around a dry throat, trying to work up the courage to ask what that meant.

It turned out it didn’t matter. Before he could say anything, Castiel touched Sam’s temples with two fingers, and Sam’s vision went black.

* * *

Sam staggered, grabbing onto the nearest solid object, then blinked at the gold-trimmed white chair he was leaning on. Confused, he looked up to an overwhelming amount of bright light and gold leaf, and realized he recognized the room. It was the Green Room, where they had confronted Zachariah and where Michael had taken Adam. It looked exactly the same as it had the last time Sam had been here—with the Cage counted in, more than a century ago...

Mentally shaking off the memory and the disorienting effects of flying, Sam straightened up with the help of the chair and turned around to face Castiel, who was frowning. “Are you alright, Sam?”

Sam was exhausted, was what he was. The freedom from pain had not been enough to rejuvenate him completely. Adding the stress of the current situation and the flying, Sam just wanted to sleep for a week and wake up in a shitty motel two months ago when the worst thing Cas had done lately was remind them again of how dire the situation in Heaven was like a dour broken record. “I’m fine,” he said.

Castiel did not look as if he believed him. “You should take a moment to recover,” he said. “I have some arrangements to make, but I will return shortly. We will talk then.”

A moment to recover did sound nice. Sam nodded in acknowledgment, the awareness that Castiel would do as he pleased whether or not Sam took his advice in the forefront of his mind. There was the faintest quirk of a smile on Castiel’s face, and he disappeared.

Sam pulled out the chair, dropped into the seat, thunked his elbows on the table, and put his face in his hands. Fuck. He was so tired. With the major threats of Castiel and Lucifer gone, the adrenaline rush was fading and fast being replaced by fatigue. And any minute now Castiel would return, and then Sam would be trapped in a room with no door with an unknown quantity. He had no idea what Purgatory had done to Castiel and no way to predict what he would do next, and he was going to have to negotiate terms of surrender with the new God while totally drained—a negotiation which, depending on how Sam played his cards, would determine whether Dean lived or went up in a column of flame.

Of course, if it went really wrong, it could always be _Sam_ who was immolated.

He rubbed his eyes hard and drew on every meditative technique for dealing with stress that he knew of. He needed to be on top of this by the time Castiel came back, or he was fucked.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, Sam didn’t have long with his depressing musings before Castiel reappeared on the other side of the table from Sam. Sam raised his head, letting his arms fall to the table. Castiel said nothing.

“Where did you go?” Sam asked, to fill the silence.

“As I said, I had arrangements to make.” Castiel placed his hands flat on the surface of the table. It was a gesture he’d picked up from Dean’s witness interrogation techniques, which Sam had always found far more endearing than intimidating.

He was not feeling very endeared at this moment.

“Did you mean what you said in Crowley’s warehouse?”

“What?” Sam replied ineloquently.

“Did you mean it when you said you would do anything?” Castiel leaned forward, gaze penetrating. “Think carefully on your answer.”

Sam swallowed, folding his arms in front of himself. There was no right answer to this question, but the truth, of course, was simple. Dean’s life had been at stake—was still at stake. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I meant that.”

“You should take this opportunity to make your desires known before we seal this contract,” Castiel said. “Dean’s life. What else?”

Oh, god, Sam’s brain was too fried for this. He was definitely going to forget something and someone was going to get hurt because of him. “Safety for Dean and Bobby,” he said, the first two things he thought of. “I don’t want you to kill them. Or hurt them. And...this deal is between us. If—if something happens,” _if I fuck up_ , “you take it out on me. Not anyone else.”

He couldn’t think of anything else. He wished he could ask for some guarantee that Castiel wasn’t going to do something awful to the world, but he sensed that just asking for Dean was pushing it, and he wasn’t about to lose control of the situation by getting greedy.

“I can promise you they will not be destroyed, but I reserve the right to defend myself or retaliate if given due cause.”

Sam’s heart dropped. “What?” Then he processed exactly what Castiel had said, and his heart sank further. “What does due cause mean?”

He half expected the response to be ‘whatever I want it to mean,’ but Castiel gave the question a moment of serious consideration. “Should either of them break the agreement not to attempt to ‘defuse me,’ my side of the agreement would be void and I would defend myself,” Castiel said. “As for our agreement, if they defied or disobeyed a commandment...if you defied or disobeyed a commandment…”

Sam swallowed hard to avoid being sick. “That’s not fair.”

“You stated your terms. These are mine.”

“What if I don’t agree?”

“Then I will seek out and punish Dean for his earlier transgressions,” Castiel said, “and then I will punish you.”

There was a long, intimidating silence, and Sam folded. He couldn’t pretend that this facade of negotiation wasn’t just for his benefit. There was no reason Castiel had to agree to any of it, and Sam knew it. “Is that it?” he asked quietly.

“That’s half of it.” Castiel circled around the table, and Sam fought the urge to twist in his chair to keep the predator in sight, remaining absolutely silent. Anything, Sam had said. That could encompass, well, a lot of things, and he wasn’t about to give Castiel ideas.

“I want what any god wants,” Castiel said after it became clear that Sam would not offer any input, stopping directly behind Sam. “I want you. Your life, your soul, your devotion, your obedience. Everything you have to give belongs to me, your God. In exchange, your family will be safe.”

There really was no other answer. “I agree,” Sam said, more forcefully than he’d intended to.

Castiel appeared right in front of Sam between him and the table, and in one swift move knocked the chair over and dragged Sam to his feet by his shirt collar. Sam yelped, hands coming up to grab Castiel’s wrist for support. “Cas, wait—”

His back hit the wall and the rest of his protest was lost as Castiel kissed him. It felt more like teeth than lips, and Sam was so startled that he tried to pull away. Castiel softened the kiss, but the wall and his fist in Sam’s collar prevented escape, and after a second Sam forced himself to relax and kiss back.

If he closed his eyes, ignored the choking constriction of his shirt collar… he could almost pretend it was really Cas kissing him.

Castiel broke the kiss, releasing his grip suddenly and dropping a gasping Sam to the floor at his feet. As soon as Castiel stopped touching him, Sam felt it: something settling over his shoulders, or into him, the lines of a contract writing itself onto his soul. He coughed, rubbing his throat at both the uncomfortable phantom feeling of the contract sealing and at the bruises that were probably forming.

Castiel had kissed him.

Castiel had made a deal with him.

Sam looked up at Castiel, forcing himself to meet his eyes and his unfathomable expression. “What now?” he asked, voice hoarse. “You send me back to Dean and next time I pull out a rosary I use your name in the Our Father?”

“Of course not,” Castiel said. “I’m taking you with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was MEANT to be my sastiel big bang, but... it's only two-thirds of the way finished and won't be done by final posting date. anyways i'm going through what i have & posting it now. it's finals soon and i want people to talk to me about godstiel & sam goddamnit


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Castiel kills an angel for being rude to Sam

Sam had been on the floor in the Green Room, so on the floor he appeared in their new location, hand still pressed to his throat. A sound familiar from years of bluffing his way around crime scenes surrounded him—people murmuring curiously as they witnessed a spectacle.

The spectacle was him. He scrambled to his feet, face burning, and then stopped, staring at the room around him in shock.

It was a hall, but bigger than any Sam had ever been in. Arranged like a cathedral with no pews, massive white marble columns, joined together by golden arches, held up a ceiling that curved so far into the sky that Sam couldn't see its apex. To either side, columns trimmed with gold framed the aisles of doors underneath the arcades. At the end of the giant hall, raised onto a platform by a sprawling set of wide, shallow stairs, was a apse containing not an altar, but a throne, framed with floor-to-ceiling windows.  Giant marble wings spread wide on either side of the throne, so delicately sculpted Sam could see the light from the windows filtering through the primaries. Whatever he could see through the windows that wasn’t blocked by the wings slipped from his mind almost immediately; all he could get was the light spilling through them and a vague impression of something beautiful.

This was Heaven. This was the part of Heaven that wasn’t for humans, that was for angels. The dozens and dozens of people filling the hall, who had been so fascinated by his appearance—all of them, to a man, had to be angels, Sam was probably the only human there, maybe the only human that had been here ever—

“Am I dead?” he heard himself say. _Did Castiel kill me?_

“No,” Castiel said, starting to walk down the hall towards the throne. The angels parted before him, leaving a clear path. “You remember, of course, your time soulless.”

“What does that have to do with anything,” Sam said in a strangled voice, following him.

“I just wanted to remind you that while only human souls can exist in Heaven, not human bodies, it’s quite possible to take a soul out without killing the vessel. You are alive. I merely wanted you here, in Heaven, because it is where I will be.”

Sam took a second to parse that, and then: “You mean I’m running around soulless down there again?!”

Cas gave him a withering look. “Of course not. Your body has been moved to a safe location and is in a dreamless sleep. If it becomes necessary I can return you to it easily.”

“You can just yank me out of my body whenever,” Sam said weakly.

“We’re not having this conversation now,” Castiel said in a warning tone. “I have some business to attend to here, and then we can talk.”

Sam shut up. They were approaching the throne, and Sam paused at the base of the stairs, somewhat intimidated by the seat.

He didn’t know why he was surprised when Castiel ascended the stairs without hesitation to take the throne.

The new God shot Sam a look, as clear as any order. Sam climbed the stairs as slowly as he thought he could get away with, stopped just below the platform surrounding the throne, and looked up at Castiel. Castiel made an impatient gesture, and Sam hastily ascended the last couple of steps, stopping next to Castiel’s throne, at his right hand.

That was sort of a romantic notion: the right hand of God. It beat some of the other possibilities that ‘complete devotion’ might entail that were rattling around in his brain, anyways. He turned around to look back over the hall—

“Sit down, Sam,” Castiel said, impatience evident.

Sam’s fantasies crashed down on him, replaced by that familiar sinking pit in his chest. Sam drew in a deep breath, acutely aware of the audience and grateful that at least Castiel had pitched his voice not to carry, and sat down on the step below the throne, feeling ridiculous.

He had been too awed to think about it at first, and then too shocked by Castiel’s revelation, but now he felt shabby in his faded flannel, next to all the splendor of Heaven’s great hall. Of course he wasn’t worthy to stand next to Castiel. Just to sit down here by Castiel’s feet. The Winchesters, Castiel’s pet humans.  He stuck his hands in his lap and tried not to think or look at any of the angels witnessing this.

“Bring them out,” Castiel ordered, and this time his voice carried through the hall.

Sam was focused on his feet, but the sound of chain clinking softly made him look up from under his bangs, surprised to hear the noise in Heaven. Two angels had brought a line of prisoners into the hall, eight in total. Each prisoner had their hands cuffed behind them, and walked like they were more heavily bound, though they wore no other restraints. Sam wondered if they were also angels, or maybe human souls—though he didn’t know what a human soul would have to do to be treated like this in Heaven.

The two guards lined the prisoners up in front of Castiel. All eight of them stared at Castiel with naked hatred, standing unmoving like statues.

“These are the followers of Raphael who were not cowardly enough to flee when he died,” Castiel said, more coldly than Sam had ever heard him. “They will answer for their crimes today. Raphael and his followers attempted to end the world again in the vain hope that it would bring Paradise! They betrayed the order of God to protect and watch over humanity!”

One of the angels spit at the base of the steps—a surprisingly crass gesture for an angel. “We respect our Father and His authority in a way you would never understand. He dictated what would happen and when. We wanted to put the world back on the track He intended for it.” Her disdain for Castiel was clear, though whether it was because he had stopped the apocalypse the first time or because he had declared himself God was not.

“God is gone,” Castiel growled. “He is never going to return to us. I am your God now, and you will face justice for what you have done.” He stood, raising his hand, and Sam reacted instinctively to the gesture, leaping up towards Castiel.

“Wait!”

The hall froze, shocked silent. Castiel lowered his arm, gaze boring into Sam. Sam swallowed, already regretting everything. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t they be given a fair trial, first?” he said weakly. “Not just, um, exploded.”

“These angels wanted to destroy Earth and consequently humanity,” Castiel said, like he was speaking to a dim child. “Every angel in this room knows firsthand what atrocities Raphael’s soldiers committed during the war. They are guilty.”

Probably they were. Probably every single one of them was as douchey as other angels Sam had met, with similar disdain for human life and dignity. He still didn’t want to watch Cas step into Lucifer’s shoes. “I don’t want you to kill them,” Sam said.

Castiel regarded him for a long moment, during which the whole hall, including Sam, held its breath. “See what they confess to doing and you might change your mind,” he said, and sat back down. “Sachiel. Tell the court what these angels have been charged with.”

One of the guard angels cleared his throat and moved to stand before the first in line, who had spat at Castiel. “Raziel,” he said, “you have senselessly murdered dozens of humans in your quest to obtain the Horn of Gabriel and various other weapons of Heaven, and have acted with the malicious intent to release Lucifer upon the world. Do you confess to doing this?”

“Yes,” Raziel sneered, and now he was looking at Sam with contempt.

“Do you have a defense?”

“No. I would kill more than I already have to set our brothers free and put us back on the path to Paradise.”

Sachiel did not respond to that, moving on immediately to the next in line.

Torture. Perfidy. The wanton destruction of human settlement. The next three angels did not deny the crimes that Sachiel attributed to them, but neither did they have anything to say.

The fifth angel did offer some justification for her actions after Sachiel accused her of summoning demons into captured human hosts in order to interrogate them for the location of the Heavenly weapons that had been lost to Hell.

“The lives of humans are immaterial in the quest for Paradise,” she said. “Every one served a vital purpose in service of Heaven, and when I smote the demons, the human souls came here. What does it matter if now or a decade later? They have lifespans like insects.”

Sam had heard this before from most angels, and even, early in their friendship, from Castiel. What did the life of a human matter in the face of eternity?

In fact, it was odd that a new God who was formerly an angel would prosecute the followers of Raphael for crimes against humanity at all. Luring Castiel’s angel soldiers into a perfidious trap, betraying Heaven or disobeying an order from God, torturing angels—that made sense. Those were the kinds of crimes that Heaven would care about. Humans were immaterial to Heaven.

But not to Cas.

He snuck a look at Castiel, like that would give him answers, but Castiel's face was blank as he watched the line of prisoners.

The sixth angel expressed remorse. “I was selfish,” she said. “Selfish and tired. I wanted the eternal peace that would have come if we had won. Is it wrong to seek Paradise?”

Sachiel did not respond to that, and moved on to the seventh angel. “Onafiel,” he said, “you have systematically sought out and murdered vessels from lineages belonging to soldiers of Castiel. Do you confess to doing this?”

“I made sure that the traitors against the Archangel Raphael could not operate on Earth,” Onafiel said. “Is it possible to ‘murder’ a human? The term implies that it matters if they die.”

“Is that your only defense?” Sachiel asked.

“Humans can barely tell the difference between Earth and their heavens. They miss nothing once dead,” Onafiel sneered. “Besides, even if they did, had we succeeded in raising Michael and Lucifer, every faithful human killed in our mission would be have been invited to partake of Paradise with us. They would no longer have to deal with the suffering that characterizes human life. No hunger, or pain, no monsters—both Eve’s children and things like _that_ —”

And Onafiel nodded to Sam.

Sam flinched hard, mouth falling open in shock. He hadn’t been straight-up called a monster in—ages.  His heart pounded in his ears, the start of a panic attack boiling in his chest despite his best efforts to breathe deep—

Something cold and blue—Castiel’s grace—washed over him, soothing, sweeping away the panic, and Sam came back to himself—only to hear Onafiel scream, crumpling to his knees. Sam whipped around to stare at Castiel. “This human is trying to convince me to spare your life,” Castiel said, clenching his fist tighter and eliciting a strangled shriek. “Show him some respect.”

Onafiel screamed louder and louder, clawing at his own sides to fight a force that he could not see or touch. The noise reverberated around Sam’s eardrums, and he clapped his hands over his ears, sure that he was very close to hearing an angel’s true voice. Onafiel was dying, undoubtedly more slowly and agonizingly than the execution Castiel had originally planned.  

“Stop!” he yelled over Onafiel’s screaming.

Castiel released the angel abruptly, contempt on his face as Onafiel collapsed like a rag doll. “Thank him for your life,” he said.

“It’s, it’s fine,” Sam stammered, intensely discomfited by the scene, but Castiel’s gaze did not waver from the pitiful spectacle on the floor, and it wasn’t Sam that Onafiel was listening to.

Gasping, Onafiel struggled to his feet. “I’d rather die,” he snarled, and Castiel shrugged.

Sam closed his eyes against the wet splattering noise of an angel exploding. He was definitely going to have nightmare flashbacks to Lucifer doing the same thing with Sam’s hands, no matter what Castiel had done about the Cage.

Probably the other angels were a lost cause, too, and Castiel had been reminded of why he wanted them dead in the first place, and would kill them no matter what Sam wanted. It didn’t really seem like the New God was making a reputation for himself of being open to suggestions. This was pointless, all Sam was doing was prolonging their suffering with his attempt to convince Castiel to judge them fairly….

Sachiel moved on to the final angel, who, like all of her siblings, confessed immediately and completely, without a shred of remorse. Sam did not open his eyes.

“Do you still think they are undeserving of death?”

Grateful for the excuse to turn away from what was surely a slaughterhouse mess, Sam turned to look at Castiel. “Yes,” he said honestly, now not only because he had no desire to watch them die by Castiel’s hand, like that. “Raphael is dead. They’re out of options. Seven angels can’t restart the apocalypse. There’s no reason for execution over imprisonment.”

“They would have handed you back over to Lucifer to have their apocalypse,” Castiel said, watching Sam carefully. “They would still hand you over to Lucifer. And an example should be made.”

Sam swallowed and shoved memories away. “I just don’t want you to kill the rest of them. Please.”

Castiel smiled indulgently, without teeth. “They can live out the rest of eternity in Heaven’s prisons, if it matters so much to you,” he said. “I can tell you that many angels would prefer death, though.”

For a moment, Sam was too stunned to respond, that was how sure he’d been that Castiel was going to refuse. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it matters to me.”

“For you, then. Take them back to their cells,” Castiel commanded.

Sam forced himself to turn back around and watch. Standing witness to their sentence was the least he could do. There was no blood on the floor; any indication of Onafiel’s existence had been wiped clear. Sachiel and the other guard ushered the remaining seven angels away with some haste, but not quickly enough for Sam to miss the glares of hatred some of the angels shot towards the throne—whether aimed at him or Castiel, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see the faces of the audience of silent angels well enough to know how they felt about the result.

Sam didn’t really have much hope for Castiel being finished then, however much he wanted a moment to himself to process and figure out what to do next. He wondered if maybe he could get away with falling asleep at the foot of Castiel’s throne, exhausted further by the ‘trial’. As the doors swung shut behind the last of Raphael’s followers, the silence left in the wake lingered for a moment, then something happened that Sam couldn’t see, angels swinging back into activity, the typical dull roar of footsteps and voices rising. Sam started to lower himself back down to the floor, resigned to spending a few more hours sitting quietly and definitely _not_ intervening again while Castiel dealt with matters of divine state.  

“Sam,” Castiel said. Sam looked up to see Castiel standing over him, and Castiel gently pulled him to his feet.

Sam stumbled, the scene around him changing abruptly to a vast hallway of infinite doors. The closest door was labeled “WINCHESTER, SAL”, and the one right after it… “WINCHESTER, SAM”. And several more after that one, also with Sam’s name on them, not to mention Samanthas and Samuels continued after those.

“Are these… Heavens?” he asked, awed by the sheer number of doors.

“Yes,” Castiel said, and placed a hand on the second “Winchester, Sam” door. “This one is you.”

“But—didn’t Dean and I share?” Sam said, then felt stupid. Of all the things he could have said about this awe-inspiring representation of humanity, he said that?

“Everyone has a door of their own,” Castiel said. “It makes it easier to find specific souls, if necessary. But not all of the doors lead somewhere unique. The pocket dimension this one opens to is also accessible by Dean’s door.”

Sam nodded, filing the information away. “Why—why are we here?”

“Open the door,” Castiel said instead of answering.

Confused, and more than a little nervous, Sam turned the doorknob and pushed it open. Yellow light spilled into the sterile hallway, and his mouth fell open. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he stepped inside. It was the Robert Crown Law Library, exactly as he remembered it from seven years ago, right down to the scuffs on the bookshelves.

“I ordered some modifications while we were in the Green Room,” Castiel said behind Sam, making him jump. “You are not dead and you are well aware of your situation. You should be able to switch between memories at will, and all of the doors will take you wherever you want them to: Heaven’s gardens, its library, the court. I have removed the projections of memory people as well.”

Sam concentrated and the library shifted from the stacks to the study rooms. The delighted, nostalgic feeling got stronger, and Sam sensed he could probably spend days filtering through good memories, locations, feelings.

Suddenly that frightened him, and he turned his back on the memory, looking for the door they’d come in. It wasn’t there.

Castiel tilted his head. “You’re not happy.”

“No,” Sam protested. “No, I love it, I didn’t think I’d ever see these places again, I just—I have to be able to remember what’s real.” Maybe this was a happier hallucination than the ones Lucifer had given him, but maybe that was also worse. Maybe he’d never want to leave.

“I know that you’re tired,” Castiel said. “Come and go as you please, but if you want rest or to have a moment alone, this Heaven will be here for you.” He looked around, then added, “I hoped the removal of human projections would help you differentiate this in your mind. You do also have a tendency to dwell unfortunately on the past.”

Sam blinked. He’d assumed the worst of that part at once, that Castiel was trying to isolate him by removing the memories of people—but really, why would he need to? Trapped in Heaven, Sam was already completely isolated from everyone he knew, and having access to recordings of interactions with people he used to know wouldn’t change that. “...Thanks, Castiel,” he said.

“You can still call me Cas, Sam,” Castiel said, and that was an expression Sam recognized: fond, exasperated by the idiosyncrasies of his humans. “Rest. If you need me you can find me in the court.”

Sam nodded, feeling too emotional to speak normally.

Castiel smiled at him, and disappeared.

Sam sat down hard in one of the desk chairs and rubbed a hand over his face. If this were a case, this would have been the point where Sam called in back-up, because he had no idea where to even begin figuring out what Purgatory had done to Castiel.

In fact, he wasn’t even sure that he should be treating the situation like a case. The megalomania was new, and Cas would never have blackmailed him and Dean into submission, but that was hardly the most morally questionable thing any of them had done. Thus far, the only other thing Castiel had done with his new power and authority was eradicate an archangel bent on restarting the apocalypse and punish those who followed him. And Castiel still listened to him, still cared for him enough to defend him to other angels and soothe his panic attacks and, however clumsily, account for his trauma in his living space.

Maybe it was fine. Maybe they could work with this. If he was really lucky, it might even be more or less temporary; after the initial power rush wore off, the authoritarianism might too, leaving Cas again the angel that half of Heaven had willingly followed into battle. In the meantime, he could do his best to steer Cas away from violent incidents.

Sam sighed, closing his eyes. Maybe afterwards Castiel would declare his heartfelt love to Sam and propose, too. That was wishful thinking. The Purgatory issue had caused a dramatic shift in Castiel, and whatever the potential ramifications, it couldn’t be left to sort itself out on ifs and maybes.

But however free to come and go Castiel said he was, Sam was trapped in Heaven, and speaking to Dean or anyone else from Earth was currently impossible. The only beings he could turn to in Heaven were angels, and he knew better than to expect help from them.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this count as a romantic gesture? sam isn't sure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Sam plants trees, then murders a goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess we're doing these on Mondays now ~~ignore that its almost tuesday~~

Sam stared up at the glass-pane ceiling of the Cleveland Botanical Gardens' glasshouse, watching clouds he knew weren’t real pass across the sky and idly wondering what the Garden looked like for angels. Maybe not very impressive; the Garden was one of the few places in Heaven he could go where there were hardly ever angels around.

He hadn’t thought that he would mind interacting with random angels so much, but.... A day or so ago, he’d gone looking for the library, interested by the fact that it was a gigantic library previously unknown to him, the vanity of being, if not the only human to ever have seen it, one of very few, and the possibility of finding something in there relevant to the Castiel...issue.

He’d gotten in just fine. What Castiel had said about the doorways in his Heaven was true; he could make them go wherever he wanted. It was a beautiful place, each bookcase a gigantic column reaching up towards the universe behind the vaulted glass-dome ceiling. Reaching things on high shelves had never before been a problem for Sam, but the height of the angelic bookcases might have been a minor obstacle.

It turned into a major obstacle once he realized that, like Earth libraries, the bottom shelves of the bookcases were dedicated to oversized and otherwise awkwardly-shaped items—in this case, various heavenly artifacts—and that the angelic definition of “bottom shelves” included at least the first ten feet of shelving, meaning that the actual books were far out of reach for anyone without wings.

He’d asked one of the several dozen angels scattered throughout the library for a ladder; the angel had looked at him condescendingly and said that there were none, but—and this was with an extremely put-upon sigh—if Sam required help reaching something specific, the angel could get it for him. Flushed with humiliation, Sam had fumbled out a perfunctory _thanks, that_ _’s all right_ before fleeing.

It had been an oddly educational experience. Humans didn’t design their libraries to be accessible to dogs, and Heaven didn’t design its library to be accessible to humans. Although maybe in this metaphor he was more like... a snake or something, something that was _technically_ a socially acceptable pet but which most people found odd and possibly disgusting, or even actively disapproved of. And with no friends to fall back on, the constant contempt from the angels was starting to get to him.

In the Garden, there were only plants to judge him.

Apart from being angel-free, in the Garden, under the shade of the trees, it was easier to forget his anxieties. He had thought after the angel trial, there would be a time to sit down and talk to Castiel and more properly negotiate where they stood, now that the threat of Dean’s death was not hanging immediately over Sam’s head. But Castiel had been distant, and as the days stacked up, so too did Sam’s anxiety level. He almost wanted to just ask Castiel to just get whatever he was going to do over with—but he had barely seen Castiel at all since he’d been shown to his Heaven and left there.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, refocusing on the grass he was lying on. The other shoe was going to drop at some point, but there was no use worrying about it when there was nothing he could do.

A throat cleared behind him, and Sam jumped, heart rate spiking. He scrambled up into a sitting position and turned to see the angel Joshua, smiling at him in kind amusement. “Sam,” he said.

“Joshua,” Sam said, unsure of what to expect. This was the first angel he'd met who he had been familiar with before. “Am I in your way?”

“Hardly,” Joshua said, setting down the little pots he'd been carrying, careful of jostling the red maple saplings they contained. “You’ve been coming to wander here near every day since Castiel brought you to Heaven, and not just because you like to be alone, I think. I'm planting saplings and wouldn’t mind an extra hand.”

Shocked, Sam looked at the saplings and then back to Joshua. He opened his mouth to ask why, then reconsidered and tried again. “I’d love to,” he said.

Joshua handed him one of the saplings, picked up the other, and gestured for him to follow. Sam picked up the plant, hefted its small weight, felt the slight give of the flimsy temporary plastic pot, the roughness under his fingers where dirt leaked out of the bottom. It felt solid; real. He tightened his grip and followed Joshua.

There were several saplings in the ground already, thin little twigs with short branches ending in single leaves each, filling the empty space along the bank of a little river in a neat row. A shovel leaned against a larger tree a further distance from the banks, and a collection of more sapling pots clustered around it. Sam didn't remember this place from the Botanical Gardens, and again wondered what was really there, behind his human perception of the location. Silently, Joshua handed him the shovel and knelt by to the hole where the next maple would go.

“Fifteen feet down the way for the next one,” Joshua said, peeling the pot away from his sapling's roots and beginning to loosen the tightly-packed dirt. “Make it about as deep as the pot is.”

Sam stood there for a moment, open-mouthed, taking in Joshua's sure, skilled movements, then collected himself and moved down to the point Joshua had indicated. The ground was damp and easy to dig in, and soon Sam found the tension that had consumed him the last two weeks or so, however long it’d been since he came to Heaven, melting away. They worked in companionable silence together, situating four saplings in the ground before Sam got up the courage to say something. “Why are you planting new trees?” he asked. “Nothing dies in Heaven, does it?”

Joshua smiled and sat back from his newest hole. “The plants do,” he said. “Once upon a time they didn’t, but after Lucifer, God added death to the Garden.”

“Why would He do that?”

“It’s about creation.” Joshua lowered the next sapling into the ground, gently patting dirt down around its root collar. “If the plants were already perfect and undying, they wouldn’t change. There would never be anything new. They wouldn’t need me to tend them, either.” He chuckled.

Sam stopped digging, fascinated. “But wasn’t everything better before the Fall? Before—” He gestured, helpless to encompass the state of the world in words. “Even if they change now, they were perfect before.”

“I don’t speak for Him,” Joshua said. “But I think perhaps He wanted to show us why He loved the Earth, because of and not in spite of its flaws. Perhaps Lucifer made Him realize He’d made a mistake with the angels and wanted to try and fix it.”

Sam laughed. “I don’t think it worked.”

“No. Free will, creation without direction, that was humanity’s birthright, but it doesn’t come naturally to angels.”

“But not impossible,” Sam said, Cas popping into his mind immediately.

“Not impossible,” Joshua agreed, standing and dusting off his hands.

Sam stared at the half-finished hole he’d been digging, mulling over what he wanted to say next. “Do you know what Castiel is…now?” he asked at last, not meeting Joshua’s eyes.

Joshua sighed. “By becoming the ruler of Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory, a being can access the power of all the souls fueling a dimension,” he said. “This is why Castiel opened Purgatory in the first place, I believe; Raphael had control of Heaven’s power source, and Castiel needed one of equal magnitude. But to _consume_ the power source—”

“Wait—does that mean he has the power of two dimensions, then? Since he rules Heaven now?”

Joshua nods.

“So there’s nothing more powerful than he is.”

“Death is the end of all things, even gods,” Joshua said, and Sam remembered the Horseman helping them with the apocalypse, and filed the thought away for later investigation. “Still—you’re right. No creature save for the original Creator has ever ruled over more than one of the dimensions, let alone _consumed_ one of them. No one knows what has—what will happen to him, or if he can even maintain the amount of power he’s throwing around. I'm sorry, Sam.” Regret filled his voice, like there was nothing he'd have liked more than to have answers.

Swallowing, Sam stomped on the top edge of the shovel to drive it further into the ground and distract himself from the knot in his throat. “It's fine. I just—” _I_ _’m worried about Cas, I’m afraid of what will happen to me or my family, I think another apocalypse might be in the cards—_ “I just wish I knew what I was doing here.” The smallest and safest piece of his emotions to reveal aloud.

“I can’t answer that. I wish I could give you some advice,” Joshua said, and quirked a self-deprecating smile. “But you know me. I just trim the hedges.”

In not-unfriendly silence, they continued planting the dwarf maples. Sam put thoughts of Castiel out of his mind in favor of enjoying the first good thing he had been able to do since arriving in Heaven. He pressed the heel of his palm into the dirt, appreciating the physical sensation of packing down earth.

“Sam!”

All the tension flooded back, and Sam stiffened, hands stilling around his sapling’s root collar. Then he scrambled to his feet, scrubbing his muddy, sweaty hands against his jeans in a futile attempt to clean them before he turned to face Castiel.

He was standing by the tree where they leaned the shovel, frowning at the scene in front of him. Sam glanced at Joshua to see the gardener continuing to plant, implacable in the face of Castiel’s disapproval. Castiel followed his gaze, and then addressed Sam. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We’ve been working on the trees.”

Castiel’s expression softened. “Come here,” he said, and when Sam obeyed, he took Sam’s hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. The dirt disappeared, leaving Sam in a fresh button-down and clean jeans. Sam pulled his hand back as soon as Castiel let go, shoving it in his pocket in what he hoped looked like a casual motion. “I’m going to Earth. I would like you to accompany me.”

Sam’s heart skipped anticipatorily. “Can I see Dean after?”

“Not right now,” Castiel said. “I want to show you something.”

Little bubble of hope deflated—but not totally dead, Castiel had said not right _now_ , not never—Sam glanced back at Joshua and the baby trees, but Castiel was not asking and this wasn’t a fight worth picking. He followed Castiel out of the Garden back to the halls of Heaven. They stopped at a large but nondescript double door, and Castiel produced a black briefcase from somewhere (maybe nowhere).

Sam didn’t have a lot of clear memories from that time period, but this was one of the clearest: Death leaning over him, taking a bright spark out of just such a briefcase, and then only an animal panic as everyone in the room ignored his desperate begging.

“No,” Sam said, backing up. “No.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, following him. Sam’s back hit the wall, and then he was trapped. He slid down in one last fruitless effort to avoid Castiel’s hand before it descended, and everything went black in a distressingly familiar manner.

He woke up lying on a bed in a nondescript beige room. There was a nightstand of unremarkable pale wood with an old cube-shaped TV, but other than that and the bed, there was nothing else in the room.

Except Castiel, hovering over him with something that sort of looked like worry.

Sam blinked and sat up. “Where am I?”

“This is a safe house,” Castiel said. “It’s a pocket dimension on Earth like the Green Room. I had to make sure your body would not be disturbed.”

That was creepy too, as were all other thoughts involving Sam’s body lying here, comatose, without Sam inside it to make decisions. “What are we doing on Earth?” Sam said, changing the subject.

Castiel’s face lit up. “I’ve been working.” He gestured at the TV, and it flickered on, switching between news programs rapidly.

“ _Today we are witnessing the unprecedented shutdown of India_ _’s leper colonies after what many are calling a miracle healing. Here with us, health correspondent Rob Lewinsky—_ ”

“ _—the sudden deaths of some 200 religious leaders are currently under investigation. The Vatican has yet to issue a statement, but some are already calling this an act of God—_ ”

“ _—the FBI now believes the Ku Klux Klan has been forced to disband—_ ”

The TV flickered off again and Castiel looked expectantly at Sam. Sam stared. “You—”

Castiel nodded. “‘I am not come to destroy, but to fulfill.’ The sick have been healed and the wicked punished.”

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” The satisfaction of hearing about the destruction of the KKK warred with Sam’s horror over the death of two hundred people for unclear reasons. “Does Heaven not have TV?”

Castiel fixed him with a disapproving look, and Sam’s sarcasm withered a bit. “Not just this. My faithful here on Earth are growing in number. I thought it was time to make a proper appearance to my followers. I wanted you to be with me the first time, Sam.”

Chastised, Sam broke eye contact, picking at the bedspread. “I’m sorry. It’s—it’s really…”  Castiel had an honest-to-god cult now, and he wanted Sam to be present and part of his debut? “...astonishing, what you’ve done.”

If Castiel saw through Sam’s oblique verb use, he didn’t show it, but neither did he look totally satisfied by Sam’s reaction. “At this rate, we are going to be late.” He held out his hand, demanding, and Sam took it. This was not what he’d been expecting, but getting out of Heaven and the pockets of Earth that Heaven controlled could only be a good thing.

If he made it back into civilization, Castiel and cultists or not, there was even a chance he could contact Dean.

Castiel’s fingers tightened around Sam’s, and he took flight.

* * *

The first thirty minutes after their arrival in the church sanctuary were among the most socially painful of Sam's entire life. There were hundreds of people, chanting Castiel's name, crying out their thanks for one thing or another, taking pictures, asking questions.... Many of them requested information about Sam, why he was here, who was he to Castiel, and Sam stuck as close to Castiel as possible, afraid that if he got swept up in the crowd he might never get out again.

Castiel did not answer any of their questions, nor did he say much at all, but as they moved through the sanctuary aisles, he laid hands on babies and young children offered up to him, healed members of the congregation begging for treatment, and after one person explained the concept of an autograph to him, left Enochian sigils on Bibles and various other personal possessions with a touch. Sam watched the devotion of the crowd in sick fascination. It was no worse than anything he'd seen at concerts or any other place where a celebrity was available to harass—something he'd long ago chalked up to just one of those instances where people were stranger than monsters—but seeing it done to Castiel was surreal.

At last they got through to the end of the aisle, where the pulpit usually would be, though the actual pulpit seemed to have been removed to leave the area a stage. A beaming organizer met them with opened arms. “Welcome to our humble place of worship, Lord,” he enthused. “We are so grateful that you choose to grace us with your presence on this day. Everything is ready for the sacrifice.” He gestured at a square fire pit set up in the center.

Castiel nodded to him in acknowledgment, and climbed onto the platform. Sam stood frozen for a second before following him, suddenly outraged. “What does he mean, sacrifice?” he hissed.

“My followers have prepared an offering for me,” Castiel said, voice pitched so that only Sam could hear it. “They wish to provide concrete evidence of their devotion and commitment. I think it would be beneficial for you to assist them, as well.”

“What—what are they sacrificing?”

“Most likely a goat.”

“That's not legal,” Sam said, although he wasn't entirely sure of that, and he was equally unsure as how the government would even respond if it was illegal. Why were they practicing animal sacrifice? Did anyone other than witches and demons even do that anymore? “Why do I have to be involved?”

“Sam,” Castiel said coolly, just as a young woman joined them on the pulpit.  
Go with Nicole. She will show you what you need to do.”

Sam turned to the woman, and she smiled at him, gesturing to a side door. He closed his mouth, frowning, and followed her.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but Nicole led him down a hallway and into a space typical of modern buildings: just a box with plain walls and either furniture or some amenities. In this case it had a tiled floor and a small kitchen counter with sink and stovetop, and in the center of the room, a couple of people were brushing a Nigerian dwarf goat, which was tied to the cabinets. It was surreal, to say the least.   

Upon their entrance, the people brushing got up, smiled at Nicole, and exited without a word. Creepy. Nicole grinned up at him, waiting for a reaction, and Sam cleared his throat. “Wow. This is a… great goat. I’m sure Castiel is going to love it.”

She gasped, thrilled and scandalized. “Ooh! You call Him by His real name?”

“...Yeah,” Sam said, and changed the subject, not wanting to become the subject of more gossip than he already was. “So… why are you sacrificing animals, anyways?”

“It’s unpleasant, isn’t it?” She made a face. “But it was His idea, really; he saved Kenny from a hate crime and Kenny managed to ask Him what we could do in thanks. He said to sacrifice a dove. And now that He’s appearing before so many of us all at once, we thought it was time to go a step above doves.”

“That makes...sense.” Even though he could barely imagine Castiel participating in any kind of blood sacrifice.  _No one knows what absorbing billions of souls does to an angel_. Sam tucked his hair behind his ear in an effort to distract himself. “So how’s the sacrifice going to go?”

“Well, we washed the goat outside and we were just making sure it’s as nice-looking as it possibly can be,” Nicole said. “We’re going to give it a sedative just before to make it easy, and as soon as the Lord is finished addressing the congregation, we’ll take it out there and then I guess instead of Jalene, it’ll be you using this replica of His sword we had made to slit its throat and bleed it out.” She leaned in, like they were conspirators. “We weren’t expecting him to bring anyone. You know how to do it, right? I mean, you’ve probably made a bunch of sacrifices before, it seems like you know Him pretty well—”

“Yeah,” Sam said wearily, “I’ve done it before.” Though they tried to avoid it as a general rule, both because of ethical concerns and the difficulties of obtaining livestock on short notice in the ass ends of America, he and Dean had both done their fair share of ritual sacrifice for cases.

Usually they did it to save people from being murdered, not for the amusement and ego-stroking of an angel on a power trip, but it wasn’t like it mattered.  

“Ooh,” she said, fascinated again. “Well, here’s what we prepared to use. It’s just a replica—we didn’t know if He would bring his own—but there you go.”

Sam stared at the angel blade she handed him, tilting it back and forth in his hand. It was clearly just stainless steel, lacking the preternatural polish and perfect balance of real angel blades, but for anyone never having seen one up close, it was a pretty convincing replica. _Sorry, goat_ , he thought.  “Sounds like a plan.” He smiled at her apologetically, handing the blade back. “By the way, I was wondering if I could maybe borrow a cell phone really quick? I’ve got to take care of something for, uh, the new God, and I forgot mine.”

Beaming at the opportunity to assist the companion of the new God, Nicole dug into her pocket at once and passed him a white iPhone adorned with blushing cupcakes. “Sure thing! If this isn’t private enough you can go down the hall to another room if you like! I’ll be sure to get you when we’re ready.”

Sam smiled at her again, much more genuinely. “Thanks so much,” he said, ducking out of the door and back into the hallway, already dialing Dean’s number.

It went to voicemail. The familiar recitation of “This is Dean Winchester” sent a homesick pang through Sam’s chest, as well as a healthy dose of panic as he slipped into an empty office room and dialed the next cell. Who knew how much time he had before they decided the goat was ready or Castiel finished whatever it was he was saying to his followers?

Dean picked up on the second number Sam tried. “This had better be an emergency,” he snapped, sounding murderous in the way only Dean could.

Sam laughed out loud in relief. “Dean!”

“Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, still grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, it’s me, Dean. I’m all right.”

“Thank fucking _god_ ,” Dean said, and then, “Fuck, is he listening to this?”

“No,” Sam said, but he glanced around, suddenly not sure that Castiel couldn’t be listening in all the way from the sanctuary. Hopefully he was too consumed by his speech. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m alone. Look, I don’t know how much time I’ve got before I have to go. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, we’re talking about you. You disappeared off the face of the fucking planet, Sam. Bobby had every hunter in the US on the lookout for you—I even tried praying to him and got nothing. It’s been almost two months. What the hell did you deal for?”

Sam swallowed. “That’s because—I was in Heaven up until just a few hours ago,” he said. “I dealt for your life—and the safety of both you and Bobby.”

“Heaven? What the fuck, Sam? What’s the catch?”

A grimace. “I promised him my life in return. I don’t think he’s going to kill me. I mean, yeah, I was in Heaven, but my body’s fine, he just...transferred my soul back and forth. It’s more like a life debt. I mean, you heard what he was asking for in the warehouse.”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Dean swore. “He hasn’t hurt you?”

 _Not yet._ “I’m fine,” Sam said. “Dean, look. We’re dealing with something with at least double the power level of an archangel. I’m not sure killing him the normal ways is possible. Plus, it’s Cas, man, we have to try to save him. Can we just, maybe separate the souls from him somehow? I did that thing with Famine way back—”

“Cas is never coming back,” Dean snapped. “He lied to us, he used us, he broke your head like it was nothing. We are not risking anything else for him.”

“So what’s _your_ plan?” Sam retorted.

“Something not fucking half-baked like yours.” A sigh. “I’m working on it. Hang on, okay? We can figure this out.”

Sam took a deep breath, carefully measuring his next words. Dean could be quick to violence under the best of circumstances, which were not these. But he might never get another chance to talk to Dean again— _especially if Castiel finds out_ —and he had to make sure that Dean was prepared for the worst. That Dean would have options if Sam failed to save Cas. “I don’t want to kill him before we figure out if we can save him or not,” he said. “But… Joshua said if anything could kill him, it would be Death. And Death is old enough he might know what to do before jumping to murder.”

Dean was quiet for a minute. “You think Bobby and I could dig up the binding spell Lucifer used?”

“Maybe.” Sam pursed his lips. “He seemed pretty upset about Lucifer doing it, though… maybe try asking first?”

“Oh yeah, I can just give Death a phone call and meet him in a Papa John’s to talk it over. Great plan, Sam.”

“Just—please don’t do anything crazy.”

“No promises.”

Sam’s mouth set in a line, but before he could say anything, he heard a gentle knocking on the door. “That sounds great. I’ve got to go, thank you,” he said, as cheerily as he could for Nicole’s benefit, speaking over Dean trying to tell him to hang in there.

He pressed the end call button with as much finality as a touch screen allowed, deleted the call history just in case, and opened the door to Nicole’s smiling face. “Thank you,” he said, dropping the affectation to be sincere.

“No problem!” She traded him the replica angel blade for her phone. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

Sam forced a smile and closed the office door behind them.

* * *

The goat really was out of it. It stumbled when they half-led half-carried it up to the platform, folding to its knees without protest in front of the fire pit. It made Sam feel better about what he was about to do. It didn’t deserve to die at all, let alone suffer during.  

The devotees who were handling the sacrifice had all changed into black robes, like half-rate Satanists, shuffling off the stage into the shadows with robes flapping around their ankles. One of them handed Sam a bowl before running to catch up with his fellows, only two remaining on the stage behind Castiel.

They’d even dimmed the lights in the sanctuary, the audience plunged into darkness and the stage lights faint blue. Sam felt incredibly stupid, holding a fake angel blade in one hand and a bowl from IKEA in the other, and he glanced at Castiel like that would help.

“Use this instead, Sam,” Castiel said, angel blade sliding out of his sleeve into his outstretched palm.

After a moment of awkward fumbling, Sam put the bowl down in front of the stoned goat and traded blades with Castiel. Castiel turned the replica over in his hands, corners of his mouth quirked in curiosity, before he vanished it who-knew-where. Sam hoped it went back to whatever cabinet Nicole had got it from. The cultists were weird but they seemed to have put sincere effort into the event, and Sam could sort of respect that.

A low chant started in Latin that Sam’s brain couldn’t take the time to translate right then. He tightened his grip on the angel blade and stepped to stand over the goat. “Sorry,” he murmured, fondling its ears one last time before tilting its head back. Its eyes rolled sluggishly as it tried to look at him, and Sam forced himself not to close his own. He had to be accurate with his cut or the animal would suffer.

He set the blade high on its throat, close to the juncture of the jaw, and pulled hard. The goat’s throat parted wetly to the spine, carotids spurting, and Sam set the blade aside immediately to cup the bowl close to the wound to catch the more sedate flow from the jugular veins. It should have been suspended if they wanted the lion’s share of its blood, but Sam wasn’t about to give out pointers on ritual sacrifice. He worked with what he had.  

The animal was dead in less than ten seconds, but it bled for several minutes afterwards, stretching out like eternity. Sam’s fingers were hot and sticky, and he tried not to breathe through his nose, overwhelmed by the nauseating copper smell.

God, what a fucking mess. He finally sat back on his knees and placed the bowl on the floor when the flow of blood slowed to a trickle, unsure of what to do next. The corpse slumped pathetically as he stopped supporting it.

The two cultists remaining on stage strode up on either side of Sam. One lifted the goat into the fire pit and the other took the bowl of blood and began sprinkling it around the edge of the pit. The first one took a Bic out of her pocket and clicked it a couple of times, trying and failing to get it started.

Sam suppressed the urge to laugh and was just about to offer help when the fire pit blazed up, flames licking halfway to the ceiling. The cultists flinched back with a cry as the blood on the stage ignited as well. Sam scrambled to his feet, turning his face away from the heat and blinking away the flickering behind his eyes caused by the sudden flare of light.

Castiel looked otherworldly in the light cast by the fire. He stepped closer to the pit, hand raised, and dipped his hand in the blood remaining in the bowl. Sam watched, horrified, as Castiel placed his bloody fingers in his mouth, eyes closing in some kind of ecstasy. The wall of flame separating him from Sam and the congregation distorted him and his features, but Sam could have sworn that when he took his fingers out of his mouth they were stained black. Castiel’s arm dropped back to his side and the flames died down to a low flicker.

Sam looked at Castiel’s hand, but it was normal, clean and pink.

“This is an acceptable sacrifice unto the Lord your God,” Castiel said, and after a moment of hesitation, a cheer rose from the crowd. The scent of the sacrifice increased, sweet and smoky, unlike any burning flesh Sam had ever smelled. Castiel smiled, and slowly, supernaturally, the flames died completely, leaving behind only ash in the fire pit and no trace of the blood anywhere. Sam looked down to find his hands and shirt clean as well; it was like the goat had never existed.

“I am pleased,” Castiel said at length. “However, I come not only to partake of communion with you. I have brought the beloved of the Lord, my first follower in this new age, that he may be consecrated and baptized into my church.”

The crowd cheered again, while Sam stared slack-jawed at Castiel. _The beloved of the Lord?_

He wanted to assume it was being used archaically to refer to a close platonic relationship, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach that said Castiel meant it exactly the way it sounded. Less than two weeks ago the idea would have thrilled him. Now he felt sick.

“I call upon you as witnesses,” Castiel said, to yet another cheer. “Let us adjourn to the baptistry!”

The noise of a thousand people shuffling to get their bags filled the room and the cultists on the stage left, joining the others filtering out of the doors of the sanctuary. Sam remained where he was, standing by the fire pit, still staring at Castiel.

“Cas—” he started, a million things to say bubbling up— _why the animal sacrifices, why the followers, what do you mean_ _‘beloved’, why a baptism, why_ —but he was cut off.

“We’ll be late,” Castiel said, holding out his hand.

“If you’re going to fly, we’re going to be early,” Sam said, not taking it. “What do you mean, baptism?”

“The ordinary. A ritual immersion in water to symbolize rebirth and new life.” Castiel cocked his head. “Did you not want to be baptized earlier in life?”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. He had wanted that, but things kept happening, and Dean wasn’t easy to slip for the length of time a baptism would require, and—well, he hadn’t been sure if he deserved it. But he hadn’t wanted to be baptized in _Castiel’s_ name, and he _really_ didn’t want to be dunked. “Cas, please. It’s—baptism is supposed to be private, not—not in front of a bunch of cultists.  Call it off. What are you trying to prove, anyways?”

Something dark sparked behind Castiel’s eyes, and with a flash of terror, Sam realized he’d overstepped. “That you’re _mine_ ,” he snapped, and grabbed Sam’s arm before taking flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bye


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Castiel makes Sam get naked, but blasphemously

They indeed had been early; when they appeared on the platform behind the font, people were still organizing themselves, and Castiel let go of Sam’s arm to stand facing the crowd stoically, waiting.

The baptistry was in reality another sanctuary, with pews lined up the same way. The only difference was the font instead of the pulpit. The font was not sunken, and it was fairly tall in order to be sufficient to dunk even the tallest people, so there were stairs on either side of it leading up to a small platform behind, which in turn had stairs leading down into the water. It was a stage, really, Sam put on the spot by Castiel’s insane ceremony and the hundreds of eyes watching.

He glanced down, away from the crowd, to see instead the still surface of the water, and his stomach churned. Full immersion. God. He took in a shuddering breath and refocused on how absolutely ridiculous he felt standing on the platform, cutting off the panic attack at the pass.

The people stilled at last, the loaded silence of a ready audience settling over the room.

“Castiel,” he hissed. “Don’t make me do this.”

“Cas,” Castiel corrected. “It’s alright, Sam.” He raised his voice so that it could be heard by the assembly. “This is Sam Winchester, beloved of the Lord—” Sam squeezed his eyes briefly shut “—who we are gathered today to see baptized in my name. Do you profess your faith and belief in the Lord your God?” he said, to Sam.

Sam glanced at the congregation like a cornered animal. His gaze caught Nicole’s, and she gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. “I—I do,” he said, and immediately wanted to bury his face in his hands, horrified with his own awkwardness. It was a baptism, not a marriage.

Castiel’s next words caught him completely off-guard. “Then shed your clothing, to stand before God without shame.”

“What?” Sam said, too shocked to modulate his tone. Lucky that he couldn’t supernaturally project his voice as Castiel had been doing.

“When you undress without being ashamed and take your clothes and put them under your feet like little children and trample on them, then you will see the son of the Living One, and you will not be afraid,” Castiel quoted, for Sam’s ears only.

“That’s not even a little bit canonical, you just want to see me naked,” he muttered. The corners of Castiel’s mouth quirked up; he did not deny it.

Sam took a deep breath and raised his hands to the top button of his shirt, undoing them all one by one, though he could have pulled it over his head well before that. He folded his shirt carefully before moving to take off his undershirt as well, stalling. Shoes, socks. He hesitated then, but closed his eyes and forced himself to keep going. Jeans. Thumbs hooked in the elastic of his boxers.

Fuck, he couldn’t do this.

He had to do this. His hesitation was worse than his action, telegraphing his discomfort to the entire audience. He shoved his thoughts aside and his underwear down, stepping out of it and folding it with the rest of his clothing.

Sam stood, trembling slightly, sure that his face was broadcasting his embarrassment like a stoplight. He fixed his gaze on Castiel’s face—both least ashamed to be naked in front of him and cynically sure that concentrating on predicting the next action of the most dangerous entity in the room would take his mind off everything else—and took the hand Castiel held out to him. With a deep breath, he allowed Castiel to guide him down the steps into the water.

It was cold; not frigid, but cold. The walls of the font now hid Sam’s nakedness, but he didn’t feel any better for it, keeping his eyes on Castiel for fear he would start panicking as soon as he looked at the surface of the water.

“Then, in the name of the Lord your God, I baptize you,” Castiel said, placed his hand on the back of Sam’s head, and forced him under.

* * *

An angel stood over him, forcing him under, and his mind filled in the blanks.

He couldn’t die in Hell—unless Lucifer let him, and Lucifer never let him—so Lucifer pushed him into the depths and his lungs filled up with water until the instinctive drowning response and the lizard portion of his brain had taken over, unknowing panic keeping him trying to stay at the surface, for days and days. And once he was pulled out—if he was going to be pulled out, once it had been much, much longer than days and he had been sure that would be the rest of eternity—it was always, always because Lucifer had thought of something new and horrifying to do to him, and getting to stop drowning was barely a relief in the face of Lucifer’s ingenuity.

Then blue suffused his vision, the comforting press of it blotting out Hell and slowing his heart, forcing out the water that Sam had accidentally inhaled in his panic, re-inflating his lungs. The last of the panic-generated adrenaline faded, and then Castiel pulled him up.

He gasped for air, shaking water out of his hair. He was shamefully grateful that Castiel had calmed him, let him up, and he would have hated himself for it, but he had some difficulty summoning the emotion under the anesthetizing weight of Castiel’s grace. Slowly, Castiel withdrew his grace, and Sam forced himself to start breathing steadily on his own.

Still shaky, it took him a moment to realize that the crowd was applauding—he’d never been to a baptism, was that normal?—but Castiel distracted him from them by leading him back up the steps of the font, drying them both in an instant. Sam looked hopefully at his little pile of clothes, but Castiel withdrew an ornate canister from his coat and Sam knew they weren’t done yet.

Uncorked, the canister released the sharp, spiced smell of holy oil into the air. Castiel touched his shoulder, and, fairly sure where this was going, Sam lowered himself to his knees, eyes wide. Anointment with oil was common enough, but anointment with holy oil—proper holy oil, not just blessed olive oil—had been reserved for kings.

“Palms,” Castiel said, quietly.

Resisting the urge to peek at the audience— _just focus on Castiel_ —Sam turned his hands palm up and held them out. “As David and Solomon and the prophets were anointed, so I anoint you, and I dedicate each of your senses to God. Your hands.”

He dipped his fingers in the canister and spread a smear of oil onto the center of each palm, slick and warmed by Castiel’s body heat. Sam felt abnormally sensitized, so intent on Castiel and what he was doing that he nearly forgot his state of undress.

“Your ears.” Castiel skimmed two fingers over the curve of each ear; his touch was light, but Sam felt aware of each new smear of oil like a brand, the shape of the marks burned into his senses. His eyes slipped closed.

There was a smile in Castiel’s voice when he spoke next. “Your eyes.” His oiled thumb brushed over Sam’s eyelids with infinite gentleness, first one, then the other, as they fluttered nervously under his touch.

“Your nose—” this one was not intimate, the oil smeared from the tip of his nose upwards feeling somehow grimier than the other locations. He hadn’t had acne since he was a teenager, but he was unpleasantly reminded of it.

One sense left to go.

“Your lips.” Sam kept his eyes closed, so that he couldn’t see Castiel’s expression when he swept his thumb over Sam’s lower lip. Castiel hesitated slightly at the widest point of Sam’s lip, like he wanted to dip inside. Sam held his breath, suddenly aware of his nakedness again, but Castiel finished the motion and pulled away.

“Your soul.” And Castiel brushed Sam’s hair back and drew a cross on Sam’s forehead. “So be you consecrated before the Lord—my beloved, my first disciple. Amen.”

Sam let out the breath he had been holding, face burning from the epithets but tentatively hopeful that this was the end of the ordeal. The applause from the crowd built again, he wanted to cringe.

“You can get dressed, Sam,” Castiel said, and Sam grabbed immediately for his pants, nearly forgetting to put his boxers on first. The oil on his palms smeared on his clothing in his fumbling, but he didn’t care. Finally his shirt slipped into place and he dropped his arms with an intense feeling of relief.

He expected Castiel to fly them out immediately, but instead Castiel gestured to one of the staircases leading down from the font.

Despairing at the thought of yet another thing to do, exhaustion dropped over him like a lead apron; the stress-generated adrenaline that had pulled him through the sacrifice and the baptism had faded. Sam descended the stairs, caught between not wanting to stay any longer than he had to and the energy required to hurry. He lagged further when faced with the prospect of walking through the congregation, and Castiel took the lead.

Considering the other option was to be left in a church of cultists, Sam quickened his pace to keep up, ducking his head to dodge the attention of the fascinated crowd. He barely registered anything they or Castiel were saying, mind consumed with the desire to lay down and rest. Surprisingly—or maybe not—no one attempted to touch him as they had Castiel. Sam was too happy to avoid it to interrogate the implications of that. If the next few days back in Heaven were anything like the past couple of weeks ( _please let them be as uneventful as the last two weeks_ ) he would have plenty of time to overthink every minute of the event.

After he successfully managed to pretend this hadn’t happened long enough to sleep.

* * *

Sam was silent all the way back from the church, from the flight from the doorstep of the church, to the safe room they left his body in, to the walk back to Sam’s Heaven. Castiel looked several times as if he wanted to say something, but he refrained. Sam hoped he would continue to refrain and leave Sam alone. But as soon as they were (finally) back in Sam’s heaven, he spoke. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

Sam sighed and changed the scene from the motel room he’d received his acceptance letter in to Bobby’s kitchen so he could sit down, placing the table between himself and Castiel. “About what, Castiel?”

“Cas,” the deity said.

Sam’s mouth twisted, but he repeated himself. “About what, Cas?”

“I thought you’d be happy that I was benefiting humankind. Many of those you met today were destitute when I came to them; whether of health or money or safe community. I helped them.”  

Sam tugged the hems of his shirt cuffs down over his wrists. “I’m glad those people are happier now. I’m glad you eradicated leprosy and the KKK and everything.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“About that? Of course I am.”

“I want you to have the best,” Castiel said. “Anything you could ever want. What am I doing wrong?”

 _I_ asked _you not to go through with the baptism_ , Sam thought. What did he say? Was it a good idea to be honest?

“Sam,” Castiel entreated.

“It’s not about them, Cas!” Sam snapped. “It’s—” He stopped, reconsidering the wisdom of saying ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ to this version of Castiel.

Castiel watched him, waiting for him to continue. Sam took a deep breath and reformulated. “It’s me. I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you ‘get’?” Castiel asked, with infinite patience. Maybe it was a novelty for him, being the one contending with the other’s lack of understanding for once.

“You. Us. I don’t know.” Sam gestured in frustration. “Why am I here? What do you want from me, Cas?”

“You’re mine,” Castiel said, matter-of-factly.

“I don’t know what that means,” Sam said despairingly. “I was already your friend. I would’ve—” Again he stopped short. “You broke my wall. You threatened to kill me and Dean. Now you’re acting like you’ve had my best interests at heart the whole time. I’m just...getting mixed messages here, man.”

“I didn’t intend to destroy you or your brother,” Castiel said, looking affronted at Sam having taken him at his word. “I am God. Had you died and gone to Hell, I would have retrieved you as soon as you would listen.”

Sam sat speechless for several full seconds. Castiel ignored his reaction and continued. “You and your brother are the two beings I most care about in this entire world. I want you safe and provided for. But you don’t think you deserve safety. Left to your own devices, you hurtle towards self-destruction. I can take care of everything for you—your health, your safety, your wellbeing—wouldn’t you like to stop, Sam?”

“Stop what?” Sam croaked, unsure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Stop holding up the world.” Castiel’s expression turned fond. “You feel like you’re responsible for everything; the fate of the world, the people you try to save hunting, preventing yourself from crumbling. But you don’t have to be. I want to take the weight from you. But you would never have just let me.”

Finding his voice at last, Sam latched onto the least disturbing part of Castiel’s words. “If it’s me and Dean, why settle for just me? Isn’t Dean the one you have a ‘profound bond’ with or whatever?”

Old bitterness, bitterness that he had never quite managed to control, leaked into his tone. Leftover resentment and hurt that the angels, and particularly Castiel, had seemed to love Dean best, when it was Sam who had tried so hard to remain faithful for so long; guilt, that he would begrudge Dean the violent and manipulative attentions of Heaven (it was Castiel, really, it had always been about Castiel); shame and selfishness for feeling like he deserved such attention from Heaven anyways. It was an old wound, but it still hurt.

“Stop that,” Castiel said sharply, interrupting his self-loathing spiral. “The bond that I have with you is different than the bond I have with Dean. That is all.”

“So why me?” Sam asked plaintively. “Why not—why not just toss both of us back in the pit until we agreed with you?”

“I would rather have you willing than unwilling,” Castiel said. “You were the one to offer the deal. It is coincidental that you are also the Winchester I desire.” He moved closer, raised a hand as if to touch Sam’s hair. Sam jerked back, and Castiel lowered his arm in disappointment.

“You desire me,” Sam repeated, and laughed. “Guess you weren’t kidding about the beloved of the Lord thing.”

“Why would I kid?”

“What does a relationship like that even look like, like this?” Sam gestured vaguely at everything.

“I want to protect you,” Castiel said, a hunger suffusing his face. “I want to care for you. I want to make up for my past failures as a friend. You have done so much for me, and asked for nothing in return, while I—I failed you. My own incompetence left your soul in the Cage for eighteen months. I love you, Sam, and I would make sure you never have to experience pain, or stress, or danger, ever again. All I ask for is for you to yield. Give me your obedience. Let me do this for you.”

“I think I want a safeword,” Sam muttered. Castiel frowned in confusion, and Sam shook his head. “Never mind. Sorry.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “...You’re interested in a sexual relationship.”

His (futile, he’d thought) fantasies about sex with Castiel felt very far away. He was pretty sure it was a toss-up whether or not Castiel would respect Sam’s sexual boundaries any more than he’d respected Sam’s desire not to go through with the baptism.

Castiel inclined his head. “I know you’re uninterested right now. I can be patient.”

 _But probably not forever_ , Sam thought hysterically.

He shoved his chair back and stood up.

“What are you doing?” Castiel demanded.

“It’s been a long fucking day,” Sam said snappishly. “I’m going to go try to sleep. Is that all right, Lord?”

Castiel frowned at his tone, but he retreated a pace, nodding. “Rest. I will see you shortly.” He disappeared with a wingbeat noise, leaving Sam alone.

Sam dropped his ruse and fell back into the kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands.

He stayed like that for a long time, shoulders shaking while he cried. When he finished, he straightened up—almost scrubbed his face with the heel of his palm, before he realized it was still coated in oil. Sucked in a shuddering breath.

If there was nothing left of Cas, he wouldn’t be so intent still on the relationship between him and either Winchester. Purgatory couldn’t have changed him entirely. Sam could still get Cas back. He had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is quoting the Gospel of Thomas 37 here, a non-canonical biblical text consisting of sayings attributed to Jesus. is it still heretical if the misused verse is non-canonical? inquiring minds wish to know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Castiel performs the equivalent action to buying your girlfriend random flowers to make up for pissing her off because you don't know how to formulate an actual apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i say these would be done on mondays? that was a lie. chapters will be actually be around whenever i remember that this fic being a messy smutty (albeit not yet, but eventually) self-indulgent darkfic does not mean that i should feel bad about it. also, day 50493 of Literally Nobody Else stepping up to the plate to write sastiel godstiel longfic, so if this is what i want to indulge in I have to write it My Own Goddamn Self
> 
> p.s. catch me on the tumbles under the same name if you wanna talk sam abuse

Sam spent the next several days under self-inflicted confinement in his Heaven, refusing to interact whenever Castiel dropped by. He couldn't deny Castiel access, nor was there any way to hide, but he could pick memories that enabled him to passive-aggressively pretend that sitting on motel couches so old the seats were more slats than cushions and watching half a dozen indistinguishable shitty reality TV shows was more interesting than Castiel, and he did.

Castiel sighed frequently, gazing mournfully at Sam, but after his initial “Hello, Sam” got no response he did not typically try to engage him in further conversation. It made Sam feel good, satisfied the same hurt, spiteful part of him that had ignored Dean's calls for a month after Dean took John’s side on the Stanford issue. It served Castiel right that he couldn't get what he wanted after publicly violating Sam.

Of course, he was getting a little bit bored; when he wasn’t using memories of bad TV to get back at Castiel, he had the rest of his Heaven to explore, but there was only so much to entertain Sam there, emptied as they were of people. His dog from Six Flags just as thrilled to see him as last time he’d been in Heaven, but there wasn’t a single construct capable of carrying on a conversation with him.

(Curious, he tried finding memories of Cas, but calling up the motel room they had met in did not summon the Cas that Sam remembered. Probably for the best. He wasn’t sure how new Castiel might react to Sam trying to interact with old Cas.)

Otherwise, there were books to read, his laptop, various memories of old movies and parks and such, as well as access to memories of all his weapons, and under any other circumstances Sam would have relished the chance to reread old favorites and brush up on the skills he actually enjoyed, like knife fighting, but he was too antsy over—over everything, really, but especially Dean and what he might be doing with the information Sam had given him. If Dean would be able to fix Castiel or kill him, rescuing Sam—if Castiel would find Dean out and kill him—if neither thing happened, and Sam stayed like this, stuck in agonizing limbo…

On the fourth day, Castiel dropped by as customary, but instead of saying hello, sighed and said, “What can I do to make it up to you?”

 _You can_ _’t make it up to me if you’re not even sorry,_ Sam wanted to say, but didn’t, because he still wasn’t talking to Castiel.

“Would you be happier if you could see your brother?” Castiel tried.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat, and he twisted around on the sofa to look at Castiel over the back. “You’d let me see Dean.”

“That’s the longest sentence you’ve spoken in three days,” Castiel said. At Sam’s glare, he sighed again. “Yes. If that will help.”

“You can’t bribe me with Dean in order to get me to fuck you.”

“That isn’t—” Castiel pressed his lips together. “I’m not trying to bribe you. I hate seeing you like this.”

“In order to get me to stop being mad, then,” Sam amended.

“Perhaps if you had ever bothered to _ask_ me if you could spend time with Dean, you would have found I am not as opposed to the idea as you seem to think I am,” Castiel said, snippily. “I want you to be happy.”

Sam did not deign to respond to that. “I want to see Dean in person. Alone.”

“You should be less demanding of your God,” Castiel said, but his nod of acquiescence undermined the intimidating effect of his words. “I have a terrorist cell to handle. I can drop you off at the salvage yard.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “I want to do it today. And while you’re at it, figure out something other than the briefcase.”

Castiel fixed him with a stare half-disapproving and half-resigned. “There are no ways more efficient than what you perceive as a briefcase to transport souls back and forth. I can knock you out now, though, so you don’t have to see it.”

“Fine,” Sam said again, and closed his eyes as Castiel approached, resisting the urge to duck Castiel’s hand.

Sam regained consciousness as Castiel landed them at the end of Bobby’s driveway and took a moment to just stare. Singer Salvage Yard was a sight for sore eyes.

Castiel placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, permission and a warning at the same time. “I’ll be back for you at nightfall.”

Sam nodded, a lump caught in his throat, and Castiel disappeared without further ado. Turning, Sam steeled himself, and walked up to the door to knock.

There were annoyed noises from inside the house, and then Bobby yanked open the door and froze. Sam raised his hand in a tentative greeting, and Bobby’s face crumpled in emotion. He opened his arms, and, swallowing, Sam stumbled forwards into the hug. “Oh, Sam,” Bobby murmured, finally pulling away to hold Sam at arm’s length and look at him. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, and, awkwardly, “Can I come in?”

Bobby moved backwards, pulling the door further open, and Sam stepped inside. The house felt so much richer than his memories of it in Heaven, the toppled piles of books and dirty dishes on the kitchen table testament to the reality of the people living in it.

“Who was at the door?” Dean’s shout carried from the library, and Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

“It’s your brother, you idjit!” Bobby yelled back, and the library fell absolutely silent.

Dean appeared in the doorway of the library, bringing an immediate smile to Sam’s face. Mouth fallen open in shock, Dean crossed the room in a couple of strides to also sweep Sam into a hug. Sam buried his face in Dean’s neck, the corners of his eyes burning with emotion.

Finally, Dean too pulled back to look at him. “Where’s Castiel?”

“Handling a terrorist cell somewhere. He said he would come back for me at nightfall.”

“Are you okay?” Dean demanded. “He still hasn’t hurt you, right? Wall holding up?”

Sam stood stunned for a moment, not sure where to start, when Bobby tactfully cut in. “Well, the research can wait for a minute. It’s about time we had lunch anyways. We’ve got cold pizza and reheated pizza, Sam, what do you feel like?”

Sam cracked a smile. “Cold’s fine.” He followed Bobby into the kitchen; Dean ducked back into the library and came back out carrying Sam’s laptop before joining them. Bobby pulled pizza slices out of the refrigerator and the brothers sat down across from each other.

“Now let’s talk about you and Castiel,” Dean said.

“I’m fine,” Sam said automatically, and then, feeling that might be unconvincing, added, “You know, he’s been busy doing a lot on Earth.”

Dean fixed him with a look that said Castiel’s humanitarian efforts were not convincing to him at all, opened the laptop and started typing rapidly. A couple of clicks later, and Dean turned the laptop around to face Sam. “Have you seen this?” he asked. Sam was prepared with a snarky response—“ _No, Dean, I_ _’ve been locked in Heaven without Internet access by a megalomaniac angel_ ”—but it died in his throat as soon as he saw the image on the screen.

It was him, kneeling on the stage with the dying goat in his arms, hands coated in blood and eyes squeezed shut. Behind him stood Castiel, and some of the costumed devotees, but Sam barely noticed. The website was a blog, titled the Followers of Castiel, and the text below the image— _Some have identified our Lord_ _’s mysterious consort as Sam Winchester, convicted serial killer and_ …

He tore his eyes away from the screen. “I…there aren’t any other pictures, are there?”

“Just that one,” Dean said. “Sam, they’re calling you the ‘beloved of the Lord’.”

Sam swallowed and turned the laptop back around so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. “Yeah.”

“This looks a little more serious than a life debt,” Dean said, folding the laptop closed. “What exactly is going on between you and Castiel? I know you used to have an angel crush, but man—”

“I didn’t think…” Sam gestured helplessly. “I mean, yeah, I had a crush, but I thought we were just friends. I mean, back when he had just rebelled—” _Sam, of course, is an abomination_ “—he wasn’t exactly friendly, and then… I don’t know, there weren’t any indicators.”

“It’s Cas,” Dean said. “He doesn’t know how to _indicate_.”

“We’re not fucking, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Sam snapped. He was uncomfortably aware that he would likely soon be made a liar, but it had been months since he’d escaped the Cage and he still hadn’t been able to articulate even a fraction of what had happened with Lucifer to Dean yet, months after the fact. He was definitely unable to even begin talking about the same kind of trauma regarding someone who was (had been) their mutual best friend, only two weeks after the event.

Dean held up his hands, eyebrows raised, like it was Sam being unnecessarily aggressive. “I’m just trying to get all the details, dude. Not like you didn’t grill me for a whole year after I made my deal.”

Sam dropped his gaze to the table, which would not judge him for being on the verge of prostituting himself to the new God in order to keep Dean safe. “You were in the warehouse. You heard what I promised him. He said you’d both be safe in return—but he reserved the right to retaliate if any of us defies him.”

“Retaliate how?” Bobby asked, finally looking up from his diplomatic focus on his pizza.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. Probably violently.”

“So what did you need to do to get him to let you come down here?” Dean demanded. 

“Nothing. Why?” Sam looked at him sideways.

“You said he was keeping you in Heaven, right? Anything we figure out to deal with Cas has to account for getting you out of there afterwards.”

“Right. Yeah. If you kill him, I’m stuck.” Sam leaned back in his chair, scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He’d been entertaining the idea of death for a long time now—even knowing that Heaven was merely an eternal rerun of his best memories as well as a machine feeding off the energy of every soul contained within it, it had sounded a lot better than life. Something that he could disappear into, a way to rest. But the way Castiel had modified his Heaven, and the way most angels felt about him specifically… becoming trapped in Heaven was looking a lot less appealing. “We could always go with my ‘fucking half-baked’ idea to fix him somehow. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about getting me out of Heaven.”

Bobby coughed and became very focused on his pizza again.

“Sure,” Dean said. “While you’re figuring out how to fix the guy that willingly ate an entire dimension and then took over Heaven, I’m going to work on the back-up plan. We’ve been in touch with Crowley and he’s given us the spell we need. A few more ingredients and we’re good to go.”

“Dean, it’s still Cas,” Sam said. “Look—I—I don’t know what ‘beloved of the Lord’ is supposed to mean—” Dean snorted, and Sam ignored him and soldiered on, “—but if it wasn’t Cas anymore, why would he give a fuck about either of us? Why _wouldn_ _’t_ he just have destroyed us?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth dimpled in a way that said he didn’t like what Sam was saying.

“He’s still in there,” Sam said again. “I know it.”

“No, you don’t,” Dean said.

“You didn’t give up on me when you thought I was going to become the King of Hell,” Sam pointed out.

“You didn’t _actually_ become the King of Hell,” Dean retorted. “You have an actual plan to defuse him non-lethally, huh?”

Sam slumped. “I’m working on it.”

“Look,” Bobby said, “Death is our best option either way. None of us have enough firepower to take out Castiel, lethally or not, but he does. We can ask him if he can deal with Cas without killing him. If that works, great. We’ll be able to get you out of Heaven and Cas back to normal. If not…”

“Should you be telling me all this?” Sam asked.

“Are you going to tell him?” Dean asked.

“No, but what if—”

“I thought he wasn’t hurting you,” Dean said, taking a bite of his pizza and chewing passive-aggressively at Sam.

Sam glared at him. “I’m just worried he’ll find out and and he’ll hurt _you_. He’s going to notice if you start looking for rare magical items.”

“He won’t,” Dean said. “I’m going to follow up on a hunt in a couple of days. Bobby’s going to outsource obtaining the ingredients to other hunters. It’s normal for them to bring him occult shit to look at; meanwhile, I’ll be halfway across the country doing what I always do. He’s not going to suspect a thing.”

“Just be careful,” Sam said. “I sold my soul to an angel to keep you out of trouble, jerk.”

“I’m always careful, bitch,” Dean said. “Plus, I’ve got backup. _You_ should be the one being careful. Stay out of trouble.”

Dean’s tone was mostly joking, the friendly condescension of an older sibling. Sam had a feeling his advice and reaction would be far different if he was aware of exactly what ‘trouble’ for Sam might entail. Shoving away the reminder of his predicament—and the nagging thought that if push came to shove and Dean’s life hung in the balance, Sam would throw all self-preservation to the wind and give Castiel what he wanted—Sam nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“It’s a plan then,” Dean said, swallowing the last of his fourth pizza slice. Sam smiled, doing his best to keep it from looking wan, and pushed his own single, unfinished slice away to stand up from the table.

They moved into the living room after that, obtained a couple of beers. Dean brought the laptop so he could start looking for the decoy hunt he’d been talking about, and Sam politely demurred when Bobby offered him some of the books they’d been researching out of, citing the potential risk of Castiel coming back in the middle of said research. He joined Dean on the couch instead, and Bobby excused himself to man the phones in the library—change of management hadn’t put hunters out of a job yet. Returning to the couch to watch more shitty TV should have been boring, just the same thing he’d been doing in Heaven for the past several days, but Dean’s presence made it contented rather than tedious.

Dean spoke up every so often to ask Sam’s opinion on a hunt possibility. Ghost, possible shifter, rawhead—“No rawheads,” Sam said.

“Aw, come on,” Dean said. “If I get electrocuted again you can just get your boyfriend to fix me.”

“No,” Sam said firmly, and Dean shook his head and continued clicking.

The silence wasn’t quite companionable—Dean clearly still had too many questions for it to be that—but it was nice. It was a relief from everything to sit and do nothing but offer his opinion on potential hunts and snark at Dean. After a while, Dean nodded off on the arm of the sofa, and Sam wondered how much his brother had been sleeping with Sam gone. He got up to find the afghans Bobby kept in the hall closet, draped one over Dean and sat back down in his spot wrapped in one of his own to ward off the chill as the day faded.

That was how Castiel found them, arriving smack in the middle of Bobby’s living room at 6PM. It was getting fairly dark out by then, but Sam wouldn’t have pinpointed that time as _nightfall_ exactly. Still, Castiel was there, so his time was up. Uninterested in making a scene when Dean was right there, asleep and vulnerable, Sam was about to get up when the sudden presence of a third body in the room got through to Dean and he flailed awake.

“Dean,” Castiel said, by way of greeting.

“Wh—Fuck,” Dean said, eloquently, and then, begrudgingly, “Cas.”

Castiel inclined his head, then looked to Sam. Dean’s gaze followed Cas to Sam, frozen on the couch, and he frowned. “You’re taking Sam.”

“You told him that I would be coming back for you, didn’t you?” Castiel said to Sam, who nodded. “Yes, I am taking Sam.”

“Why?” Dean demanded. “Why can’t he stay here on Earth?”

“I don’t want him to,” Castiel said, loftily. “And even if it weren’t important to me that he be by my side, I don’t want Sam hunting anymore. The lifestyle is dangerous and unhealthy, something he has been trying to escape for years.”

“I don’t mind hunting,” Sam tried to say, distressed by Castiel’s control issues but even more so by the idea of bringing this old argument up again—and with it, Dean’s inevitable anger and disappointment. He was fine with hunting now, he really was—but Dean and Castiel both ignored him, glaring daggers at each other.

“He doesn’t have to hunt. Bobby doesn’t hunt, it’s not like it’s a requirement.”

 _Please shut up,_ Sam thought, willing Dean to let it go, to stop arguing, to stop pissing Castiel off, stop putting himself in danger—

Castiel leveled Dean with a scathing look. “ _You_ are a hunter, Dean. Where you go, Sam goes, and at the first sign of someone in trouble, you will drag him back in with you. Better to remove temptation.”

Sam curled into himself against the arm of the couch, as inconspicuously as possible. He wanted Dean and Castiel to stop talking about him like he wasn’t there, but as soon as he raised any objection, Castiel would end the interaction and take him back, and he didn’t want that either.

“Since when is wanting to save people a crime?” Dean scowled. “I’ve got Sam’s back and he’s got mine. It’s not that dangerous. We’ve been fine hunting for years. You don’t own him.”

 _Here we go._ Sam closed his eyes, braced himself.

“Yes, I do,” Castiel said smugly, and the look on his face as he turned to Sam was all that was necessary. Refusing to meet Dean’s eyes, Sam got up and came to stand next to Castiel. “You should be grateful you get to see Sam at all, Dean,” Castiel said, placing his hand on Sam’s arm in preparation to fly. “If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t even be alive right now.”

Sam hid his flinch, heart speeding at the reminder of the threat Castiel held over them all, but the salvage yard was already gone.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said as they reappeared in Heaven. He loosened his grip but did not let go, thumb rubbing gently over Sam’s arm. “I didn’t intend to make a scene. Did you enjoy yourself otherwise?”

It was fine. Dean was fine. No one had been smote. Castiel had found nothing out nor did he intend to bring retribution upon either Winchester. It was _fine_. Unsure of his own ability to speak, he nodded.

Castiel brushed a lock of hair out of Sam’s face, tucked it behind his ear. He smiled warmly. “I’m glad. Will you be coming out of your rooms more often, then?”

Probably only one acceptable answer to that. Sam nodded again. He was tired of shutting himself away in a futile attempt to punish Castiel, and anyways, those had been the implicit terms of getting to see Dean again.

Castiel’s smile widened. “Let’s consider everything forgiven and past, shall we?”

 _Definitely_ only one acceptable answer to that. Sam nodded for the third time, and then cleared his throat and said, “Water under the bridge.”

“Good.” Hand still tucked in Sam’s hair, Castiel leaned in. Not expecting what happened next, Sam didn’t have time to react or try to deflect as Castiel placed a chaste kiss on Sam’s lips. Castiel pulled away, looking self-satisfied, and Sam still had no idea how to react. “Goodnight, Sam,” Castiel said.

Sam smiled weakly. “Goodnight—Cas.” He excused himself then, backing through the door to his Heaven awkwardly, and Castiel let him go, still smirking.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is library

_Stay out of trouble_.

As if Sam wasn’t the one who’d gotten Dean out of trouble in the first place. As if Sam was still an invalid, or otherwise incapable. Well, they were already in trouble, and Sam couldn’t stand by anymore. He’d done the conversion: a day in Heaven was about a week on Earth. Given about two months’ time for Bobby’s contacts to acquire the rare spell ingredients he needed, Sam probably had a week in Heaven before Dean and Bobby put their plan into action. At that point... if it succeeded, then it succeeded. If it  _didn’t_  succeed, they needed a plan B.

If they didn’t succeed  _and_  there was no way to pull off a plan B...

Well, Sam tried not to make a habit of imagining the many horrible and creative ways a vengeful being could deliver suffering to his family. But even if any effort he made was futile (and it probably was), sitting by to let Dean and Bobby do all the work and then take all the heat was antithetical. The small issue of his desire not to see Castiel end up dead was a second factor; he wasn’t sure he trusted Dean not to “forget” to ask Death about nonlethal solutions. 

Therefore, he had two immediate objectives: find a way to access Heaven’s library and do his best to put Castiel off their tails. Then, once that was accomplished, he could get to work. 

Castiel wanted Sam to be more demonstrative, more involved. Sam was pretty sure that compliance, and more than that, active initiation of interaction, would go a long way toward convincing Castiel to treat any other actions Sam took as in good faith—and hopefully, by proxy, that Dean’s actions would be interpreted in good faith as well. Conveniently, Sam needed someone who could fly to help him with the library, and step one of his plan to develop a plan B began to coalesce in his head.

So, the morning right after leaving Singer Salvage Yard, Sam steeled himself, shoulders back, and opened the door of his Heaven directly into the courtroom. Pointedly ignoring the angels in the room and the mocking whispers in Enochian they thought he couldn’t understand, he crossed the room and climbed the steps up to Castiel’s throne. False confidence wasn’t quite enough to make him meet Castiel’s eyes, and Sam fixed his gaze on Castiel’s mouth as the corners of it deepened in satisfaction.

Castiel didn’t say anything, waiting instead for Sam’s next move. Sam didn’t say anything either, turning his back and sitting on the floor just to the right of Castiel—almost as he’d been the first time he’d come to the throne room, but at Castiel’s feet rather than a step below. Avoiding looking at Castiel or his reaction, Sam stretched his legs out and settled in for the long haul.

The courtroom snapped out of the apparent daze that Sam’s appearance had caused, swinging back into action with dignity. An angel stepped up with their report and commenced.

Sam only half-listened. Heaven’s politics, at least as they concerned what Castiel was planning,  _were_  of interest to him. At the same time, he had a limited amount of power to influence Castiel’s actions (not  _no_  power, he wouldn’t let himself think like that) and collecting enough information to worry about what Castiel was doing to the Earth and the rest of the universe was a self-destructive impulse. Still, he caught some of it, and it seemed that Heaven was busy—some splinter groups still festering, the heavenly weapons not yet all retrieved, a new treaty with Hell in negotiations.

By the second or third hour of this, Castiel’s hand had wandered. Sam stiffened at the first brush of fingers against his hair, startled by the contact, but forced himself to relax when he realized it was Castiel and not, as his instincts had assumed, an enemy. Convincing his racing heart that Castiel was not a threat proved more difficult, and Sam closed his eyes and drew on one of his breathing techniques to calm himself. 

If Castiel noticed Sam’s tension, he did not react, continuing to absently comb through Sam’s hair as he listened to an angel reporting on the inflow of souls to Heaven. His nails scratched pleasantly across Sam’s scalp, and his fingers were painstakingly gentle when he worked little knots out of Sam’s hair as he found them. It felt good to sit there, focused on nothing but his breathing and the soothing touch.

The realization struck him suddenly that it had been at  _least_  another hour later and he was now leaning against Castiel’s leg, relaxed under the petting. Sam tensed as self-loathing flooded him, a nauseating flush of emotion. He couldn’t remember when anyone had last touched him like this—couldn’t remember  _who_  had last touched him like this, casually, intimately. 

He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

Was he that fucking desperate for positive touch that he could accept and even enjoy it from the being who’d blackmailed him, stripped him naked in public, trapped and isolated him in another dimension?  _Fucking pathetic_ , whispered a voice in his head, and,  _you’ll do anything for a shred of kindness, doesn’t matter who, this is why Lucifer liked you, desperate needy slut_ —

Castiel’s hand paused, questioningly, at the back of Sam’s head. Sam closed his eyes, shoved the thoughts away before the grace Castiel had replaced the wall with responded. God, he was so fucked. And fucked-up. 

But it wasn’t like he was going anywhere, and he was okay; he was aware of reality, he knew Castiel was not Lucifer, the warmth of his knee against Sam’s cheek proof of that. The white noise of the court and the brush of his hand had been relaxing before Sam panicked over nothing. Castiel  _wasn’t_  a threat, not right now, and the  _entire point_  of this was to show Castiel that Sam knew that, that Sam was trying to hold up his end of the bargain. 

Everything Sam had to give; his life, his soul, his devotion.

With a long exhale, Sam settled fully against Castiel.

After an uncertain second, the petting resumed, Castiel seeming satisfied that Sam was all right. Sam’s  _moment_  had been entirely internal, he realized; the court hadn’t paused at all while he wrestled with himself. Sam spared a moment to be glad it hadn’t turned into a scene, and then, as the continuous flow of voices washed over him, allowed himself to drift into something like sleep.

Dozing, it felt like only a second before the contrast of utter silence roused him. He blinked, taking in the empty court and the starlight filtering through the giant windows behind them, and stretched. The movement dislodged Castiel’s hand still stroking his hair. The loss of its weight and heat was palpable and disappointing.

Sam chose not to think about that and finished his stretch, feeling sleepy but comfortably so, not the zombie-like aftermath of daytime napping.

“Good evening,” Castiel said, sounding amused.

“Mmph,” Sam said, and then, unmotivated to stand up properly, tipped his head back enough to see Castiel’s face.

Castiel brushed a stray hair away from Sam’s nose, smiling fondly. “As nice as it is having you here, I don’t think you came to court today just to fall asleep on me.”

Oh yeah. Sam’s thought process stuttered, before he remembered what he’d been intending to say this whole time. “The library.”

“What about it?”

“I can’t reach the shelves,” Sam said. “I thought, if you had time—”

“None of the angels would help you?”

Of course they had, unwilling to face Castiel’s wrath by shunning his favorite pet, but even if Sam hadn’t been angling for Castiel’s help for a specific reason, being treated like an oddly demanding houseplant was hardly Sam’s ideal customer service experience. “They did, but...” He fumbled for words that wouldn’t make him look like a total idiot, hoping Castiel would fill in the blank with something flattering. 

Castiel did, and his smile widened. Sam breathed an internal sigh of relief. “I always have time for you, Sam,” he said, rising from his throne and putting his hand out to Sam, still on the floor.

Sam took it, and with a blink, they were in the center of Heaven’s library.

The heart of the library was marked by a huge, intricate circular mosaic, artfully scattered with reading tables. Hundreds of rows of gigantic columnar bookcases spanned out around it, centered on their own smaller mosaics. Around each column were ring-shaped platforms of flat marble, slowly orbiting the bookshelves like halos, so that angels could perch next to each shelf no matter how high.

It was just as beautiful as the first time Sam had seen it, but this time the sight sparked an immediate flare of resentment rather than awe. It was a reminder of exactly what his status was in Heaven. Still, the damn library was going to help him convince Castiel of Sam’s good faith effort in this relationship at least, even if it remained unhelpful in any other manner.

“Where would you like to start?” Castiel asked. 

Sam came back to himself with a start. “Oh—I was looking for something about, uh, the history of human magic,” he hazarded.

Castiel nodded thoughtfully and began walking through the forest of bookcases. Sam followed him until he stopped at the base of one. “This is one contains many of our human history books.”

“How can you tell?” Sam craned his neck, trying to read the titles of the first row of books.

Castiel tapped his foot on the mosaic surrounding this bookcase, and Sam realized that there were Enochian letters outlined in tile on the floor. “The tiles are the signposts. Here,” he said. “Place your arms around my shoulders.”

Unsure, but without other options, Sam obeyed, and unexpectedly, Castiel wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist, pulling him flush against his body. Wingbeats, much louder than Sam had ever heard them before, drowned out Sam’s immediate protest. He felt his feet lift off the ground, and then, instead of blinking to a new location, they were rising steadily. Sam’s eyes widened and his grip on Castiel tightened. Castiel’s wings remained invisible, but Sam could swear he saw the shadow of gigantic wings beating around them.

Castiel alighted on the third ring, perhaps forty feet from the ground. He disentangled himself from Sam gently, keeping one hand firmly on Sam’s shoulder to prevent him from unbalancing immediately as he found his footing.

“Holy shit,” Sam muttered, looking over the edge, dizzied by the height and the fact that the platform he was standing on was in motion, rotating slowly about the bookcase.

Castiel removed his hand from Sam’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and exhaled. The orbit of the platform slowed before returning to normal speed. “If you wish, the platforms will come down to the ground for you now.”

“Um... what happens if I fall off?”

“I would catch you,” Castiel said, and only Sam’s long familiarity with Castiel allowed him to detect the teasing in his voice. Sam nearly smiled, and then Castiel added, “The library will not let you fall. I would not knowingly put you in danger, Sam.”

The smile faded under the reminder of Castiel’s new possessiveness, though Sam did his best to hide it. Sam wasn’t sure how to respond, so he turned instead to the other shelves, watching titles float past in slow motion. Half were in Enochian and the other half were in human languages, but of the latter, only the smallest fraction were in English. At random Sam plucked an Aramaic title from the lot.

“Can you read that?” Castiel asked.

“No,” Sam said, cracking it open to the first chapter. “Can you?”

Looking at Sam as if he were being ridiculous, Castiel stepped closer, taking in the first page of the book, before he spoke.

Sam listened, more fascinated by the effortless, instantaneous translation from Aramaic to English than the content of the book itself, and, when they reached the end of the first chapter, pages turning by themselves under the influence of Castiel’s power, said, “That was incredible.”

Castiel preened. “Of course, I can read every language that humans have ever created.”

“Yeah?” Sam waited for the ring to go around again and shelved the book where he’d gotten it, grabbing one with letters he couldn’t recognize at all. “Who were the people who spoke this language?”

This tome was smaller, and Castiel used the excuse of getting a better look to step even closer to Sam. “This? This was written by the people who built what you call ‘Stonehenge’...”

They managed to pass hours like this, Sam picking book after book and Castiel translating and answering questions in turn. Sam soaked up the information like a sponge, enthused by the wealth of knowledge Castiel had to offer—knowledge Sam never would have thought  _existed_. Castiel’s brief asides on various texts were equally likely to have Sam floored at the length of Castiel’s existence, or, oddly, wistful. Every time Castiel commented on the actions of a society long since dead, Sam was reminded of the perspective Cas—Castiel  _before_ —had held on human absurdities, often bewildered but never derisive—one of the things that had set him apart from angels like Uriel from the start. 

At last, Castiel placed his hand over Sam’s before he could grab yet another volume, and Sam felt a disappointment far stronger than was reasonable for an activity he had initiated just to manipulate Castiel. “It's getting late,” Castiel said. “You should pick one that you can read without me.”

“Recommend me one,” Sam said impulsively.

Castiel smiled, surprised and pleased, then tugged him close again and flew them to a different column, an even higher ring this time. He selected a tome from the shelf, large enough that Sam needed both hands to hold it. “This one,” he said, “is written in Enochian, but it is my understanding that you sp—"

“Yeah,” Sam said, cutting him off. He had no desire to talk about how he’d acquired perfect fluency in Enochian, about the decades of exercises in humiliation masquerading as lessons, seared into his memory by the swift and unrelenting agony that had followed his every mistake. 

A flicker of grace unfurled in Sam’s chest, dissipating the anxious tightening there, soothing away the reminder of the Cage. Castiel himself only nodded in understanding. “This is a history of the creation of Heaven and the universe and is written in no other language—but there is much I could recommend in English—"

Sam hefted it, forced a smile to cover his lingering discomfort. “Bit thicker than Genesis, isn’t it?”

“There is much that Genesis left out,” Castiel said, gravely, an echo of the sincerity Cas used to speak with before he figured out that a good 50% of what Sam said and 80% of what Dean said was not meant to be taken literally.

Sam nodded, gaze fixed on the book and the golden engravings on its cover. “This is amazing,” he said, sincerely, hugging the book to himself and looking up. “Thank you.”

He got another smile for that, and Castiel moved close again, brushing a lock of hair out of Sam’s eyes. “You should go back to your Heaven and rest now,” he said, and at Sam’s nod of acquiescence, leaned in to place a kiss on Sam’s forehead.

Sam found himself teleported into the middle of Bobby’s guest bedroom, still clutching the book. He took a breath, and then collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

That had been...fun.

That had been like...well, like spending time with Cas.

 _Your standards for relationships are abysmally low_ , he told himself.  _You’re reading into it because you don’t want to face the reality that Dean’s already accepted._  

But it couldn’t erase the warm glow in his chest. The feeling that that  _had_  been Cas. That he was right. That there was an angel left in there to save. That destroying Castiel, the deity, wasn’t worth losing  _Cas_ , Sam’s dearest friend.

No more wasted time. He had research to do, and, at maximum, a week to do it in.

As it turned out, he only had four days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the author DOES have a library kink they are shamelessly projecting onto sam. don't @ me. unless you really really want to and in that case I can be found [@tumblr](http://azazelsocks.tumblr.com)
> 
> This chapter fought me the whole way but I finally beat it into submission ~~much like Castiel may be doing to Sam in the near future~~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Castiel has a conversation with Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone in the comments last chapter enabled my library kink so godstiel IS going to fuck sam in the stacks at some point and it WILL be all of you people's fault congratulations

Sam had thought he was pretty good at identifying monsters. They had, after all, consumed the vast majority of his reading material and non-academic activities from age twelve onward. He knew North American monsters like the back of his hand, was familiar with Central and South American species, and could at least usually recognize the names of overseas monsters when he came across them in his reading.

Heaven’s material on supernatural creatures was causing him to seriously re-examine his opinion of his monster knowledge. Even sticking only to books in languages he actually recognized, of the books he found, he was constantly running into names and creatures he had never heard of before. And he’d thought that Eve's Jefferson Starships were confusing. He’d pilfered a notebook from a memory in his Heaven; starting from the front cover, he made notes, and starting from the back cover, he kept a list of every unfamiliar name he came across--a list which occupied nearly as many pages as his ordinary notes.

Every one of these monsters had ended up in Purgatory when they died--if they died? Most of them had unclear mortality requirements--and his lack of familiarity with them made it difficult to cross-reference the small amount of information he did have with what he knew about Castiel. The primary clue he had was the mysterious black that he saw under Castiel’s skin sometimes, but he hadn't even scratched the surface of what that could be linked to.

Research was always harder than he expected it to be at the beginning. He just hadn’t quite expected it to be this much harder.

His difficulties were compounded by the requirement of secrecy. His notebook never left his person, and he had had to find some way to store and organize the materials he was using without making it too obvious. He’d settled on picking a shelf and putting all his current reading at the beginning of it, in spite of the twinge of guilt he felt at actively thwarting the library’s organizational system. He didn’t think that Castiel would be looking that closely, if he looked at all, and though other angels frequented the library, he was pretty sure they weren’t paying close enough attention to his human antics. He avoided doing too much research when they were close by, just in case, but their apathy towards him was obvious.

Sam also worked out a routine. He needed as much time as possible in the library, but he also needed to dampen suspicion and maintain a cordial relationship with Castiel. So, every morning at the absolute crack of dawn, before any angels would be around, he came from his Heaven to the courtroom, entering from the side underneath the arcade to cross to Castiel’s throne. The first day, Castiel arrived only after Sam did (confirming Sam’s suspicions that Castiel always knew exactly where in Heaven he was), but the second day, he caught on and was waiting for Sam.

“Library again?” Castiel asked him.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’ve been reading _The Creation_ , um, the one you gave me, but—god, Cas, there’s so many. I could spend the next twenty eternities in there.” A tiny spike of guilt leapt through him as the words left his mouth— _he picked the one out specially for me, I should be focusing on it_ —

“It’s going to take you the next twenty eternities to finish reading anything if you keep picking up new books,” Castiel said, smiling fondly at him.

 _You_ _’re being irrational_. He let out a laugh, half at Castiel’s gentle jibe, half at his own absurd anxiety. “It’s a good thing I have all those eternities now, don’t I?” He leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to Castiel’s cheek. “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel caught his face between both hands before he could pull away, smile widening, and Sam grabbed the arm of the throne to balance himself. Sam anticipated a kiss, something like the quick one he had offered or that first chaste one Castiel had given him after the salvage yard. He didn’t anticipate the heat of Castiel’s open mouth over his own, or the way Castiel’s hand slid from his jaw to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck, and, surprised, his lips parted against Castiel’s before he could stop himself.

Grace sparked between their lips, like the burning chill of mint, sending his heart racing as sensation overloaded him, energy thrumming from Castiel’s mouth and hands through Sam’s entire body. His other hand came up to grab at Castiel’s shirt, seeking stability. Greedily, Castiel deepened the kiss, hand hot against Sam’s cheek, and Sam’s breathing shallowed in response.

Castiel released him a moment later, sitting back in his throne. Dazed, with the remnants of the surge of grace tingling in his fingertips, Sam nearly fell forward into his lap, catching himself just in time on the arm of the throne. He straightened hastily, making a pretense of tugging his shirt sleeves down to his wrists.

Castiel smiled at him, Cheshire. “Have a good day, Sam.”

Sam nodded and stammered out a faint “you too” before beating a hasty retreat back down to the aisles and the door to the library, just before the angels began to filter into the hall.

He did the same thing coming back each night, after the angels had all left; it was then that Castiel asked him what he’d been reading. Sam deflected questioning into his research by answering with tidbits about _The Creation_ and the titles of books he had rejected as not relevant. There were no more kisses like the one that second morning; Castiel allowed him to get away with quick pecks on the cheek or even without any physical contact sometimes.

Sam wasn’t sure if he was grateful or disappointed.

On the third evening, Sam entered the court to find Castiel sitting with his chin propped in his hand, looking unusually pensive. “Are you looking for something particular in all these hours you spend at the library?” he asked when Sam approached him.

Sam’s blood ran cold, and he only just managed to regain his composure before Castiel noticed. “Not really,” he said. “Why?”

“I could help you find what you were looking for, if need be,” Castiel said, gaze searching Sam’s face.

“No,” Sam said— _too quickly, tone it down_ — “No, it’s okay, you’ve got things to do. And I’m enjoying the exploring. It’s a—it’s easy to get lost in there.”

“It is.” Castiel surveyed Sam one more nerve-wracking time. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. It’s good to see you happy.”

Sam flashed him a quick smile. “You know me and books.”

Castiel made an agreeable noise. “Goodnight, Sam,” he said.

Taking the dismissal as the gift it was, Sam returned to his Heaven.

He tried not to dwell on Castiel’s odd demeanor, but it was still eating at him in the morning as he dropped by to say hello to Castiel and after he had made it back to his shelf of resources. Did Castiel suspect him? Or did he have some other reason for being less than enthused about Sam’s time spent in the library?

Maybe he just wished Sam would do something like spend all day with him in the courtroom again, or maybe he had wanted Sam to say “yes” to his offer of help, to have a repeat of the—very enjoyable—evening they’d spent together.

And maybe hunters weren’t the most paranoid population of people on Earth. Noting down their titles in his notebook, Sam re-shelved the books he’d been using as reference as close back to their original locations as he could remember and abandoned the supernatural creatures column, making his way over to the historical column where Castiel had gotten _The Creation_. Time to mix up his research a little bit, just in case. He’d been banking on being able to find something useful on a specific monster that might cause Castiel to act erratically, but maybe it had something to do with the mechanics of the dimension itself.

Sam called down one of the floating rings, perched on it, legs hanging over the edge, and opened his notebook to the next blank page. He titled the page _how do dimensions work?_ and, tapping his pen against the corner of his mouth, fixed his attention on the shelves of books floating past him.

He made it through the rest of that day without mishap. It was the dawn of the next morning, the fifth one after Sam had started his research, that it all went to hell.

Castiel appeared in the middle of Sam’s Heaven (currently a trout-themed motel room from a town with an overzealous fishing population that Sam had forgotten the name of). Sam, who had just gotten out from under the fish-adorned covers of one of the beds, hesitantly sat back down on the edge of it, nudging his notebook under the pillow as surreptitiously as possible. “What’s up, Cas?”

Castiel turned a familiar squinting frown on Sam, the expression that said he was confused and distressed by some aspect of humanity—and most likely, confused and distressed by Sam specifically in this context. “Sam,” he said. “I believe we should talk.”

Sam’s heart rate jumped into his throat. He folded his hands in his lap and swallowed. “What about?”

“What have you been spending so much time in the library for?”

“I—I told you,” Sam said weakly. “I just like books. There’s not that much else to do in Heaven.”

“Hm.” Castiel regarded him, which did nothing good for Sam’s heart rate. The knowledge that Castiel could definitely hear his heart from where he stood less than ten feet away didn’t help—nor did the fact that Castiel’s presence tended to blow Sam’s composure anyways.

But the stakes were too high to confess.

Castiel sighed through his nose. “Have you met an angel named Nathaniel?”

Sam’s confused silence spoke for itself.

“He enjoys spending time in the library as well.”

 _Oh fuck._ Sam thought he could see where this was going now, and he didn’t think he liked it.

“He came to me a few days ago and said—how did he phrase it? That my _pet_ had started a rather intense research project on Purgatory, and he wanted to know if I was aware.”

The realization that an angel had snitched on him to Castiel felt like a physical blow to his lungs, combined with the sting of the contempt in Castiel’s voice when he said “pet”. Sam forced it down, kept a straight face as best he could. “I’ve been doing some reading on monsters, yeah. I’m still a hunter, Cas.”

“You are _not_ ,” Castiel snarled, hands clenching into fists. Sam flinched backwards, terrified, and Castiel visibly calmed himself. “You’re _mine_ ,” he said. “I’ve said you don’t need to hunt anymore. That part of your life is behind you.”

Sam managed a stiff nod, not daring to say anything.

“I know you’re lying to me,” Castiel said. “I was hoping to give you the benefit of the doubt. That Nathaniel was mistaken and you were doing something else, or that you would come clean to me of your own volition.”

The silence stretched between them, Sam’s hands frozen into fists in the sheets and his heart beating like a block of ice. Castiel was clearly waiting for Sam to say something, but Sam’s tongue felt like a dead fish in his mouth, limp with terror.

It was a miracle he managed to croak out the words, “It’s my fault.”

Castiel raised one eyebrow at him, inviting elaboration.

 _You fucked your own plan up, you don’t need to drag Dean and Bobby down with you_ _._ Sam cleared his throat. “N-Nathaniel was right. I was researching Purgatory. I’m sorry, I—” He swallowed at the deeply unimpressed look on Castiel’s face and plunged onwards. “I was trying to figure out what absorbing all those souls did to you.”

“You had no intention of looking for information that would put me back to normal.”

He swallowed again even though his throat was dry. “I—I hadn’t gotten there yet. But—eventually.”

“And that’s all you have to confess.”

Sam nodded, unable to speak anymore. The silence returned, oppressive, Castiel frowning at Sam and Sam staring back beseechingly. It stretched like taffy, long and slow. Castiel looked like he was waiting for some revelation to hit him, or something else from Sam, and desperation clawed at the inside of Sam’s ribcage. But he had nothing else to say.

“If you’re not going to tell me, I will find out myself,” Castiel said at last.

“Wh—No, that’s everything, I swear—!”

Castiel moved towards him, and Sam jerked to his feet, like that would help him defend himself. He could already feel the wall at his back, and his gaze cut across the room, instinctively cataloging escape routes that he didn’t have. “Cas, please—” he began. Castiel stopped in front of him, face stony, and despite the four inches Sam had on him, Sam felt like Castiel was the one looking down.

Sam held his breath.

Castiel raised his hand, and the realization of what Castiel planned to do slammed into Sam like a truck. “Wait wait wait, no, please, just give me—”

Further begging cut off in a scream as Castiel’s fingers sank through Sam’s sternum. His back arched against the wall, chest lit up with fire, brilliant and consumptive, soul laid bare for Castiel’s searching hand. He felt so full, too full, like he would burst or split in two around the entity forcing his soul to spread apart, make room for it, yield its secrets—

He knew his eyes were screwed shut in pain, but images flicked past them anyways, memories interspersed with each other linked by random, fleeting connection. Sam, putting away his books to avoid suspicion yesterday; the agonizing pause of Castiel stopping to linger on the titles of every single one. Heaven’s library, the night Castiel had fixed the bookshelves for him. A different library, then; Dean standing in the doorway of the one at Bobby’s.

Sam was dimly aware that tears had begun to stream down his face. _No, Dean_ …

From Dean standing in the doorway of Bobby’s library to Dean standing in the door of Bobby’s kitchen. Dean outlining their plan to Sam over pizza; the deep pain of Castiel tugging the memory out and forcing it to replay slowly, once and once again. From that to the fear-driven pain Sam had felt over what would happen to Castiel if they got Death involved. Then Dean’s voice over a cupcake-adorned iPhone, asking if Lucifer’s spell to bind Death could be replicated.

All of his sins, laid bare and obvious.

When Sam came back to himself, he was slumped against the wall on his knees, cheeks wet, breath harsh and sobbing. Castiel stood over him, face impassive, and it took only a second for Sam to process exactly what it meant that Castiel had seen all of that. “It was my fault,” he burst out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I lied, but I the one who was doing the research on Purgatory, I’m the one who told Dean about the spell, it wasn’t his fault, he never would’ve if I hadn’t told him, please, I’m sorry, punish me, not him—” He trailed off as Castiel’s expression did not change.

Once Sam was silent, Castiel spoke. “I trusted you,” he said. “I trusted you to be left to your own devices, I trusted you to let you see your brother, and this is what you do?”

Sam had no words.

“I’m disappointed,” Castiel said, and Sam’s shoulders hunched in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Sorry you got caught,” Castiel sneered, and dragged Sam to kneel upright with a fist in his shirt collar. Their surroundings changed with a blink, and Sam cried out as Castiel shoved him backwards, barely managing to catch himself on the stony ground. He looked up and around to find himself in a small, dim room with unfinished concrete walls, Castiel standing between him and the door.

“I will punish Dean, and then I will deal with you,” Castiel said. A pause. “You did defend me to Dean and Bobby, though, so I will give you this. You don’t have to watch.”

Sam’s breath caught, and fresh tears burned the corners of his eyes as he scrambled back up to kneel in front of Castiel, reaching for him. “No, Cas, please, it’s my fault, don’t hurt them, I’ll do anything—” Castiel’s crotch was just at eye level, and Sam’s voice cracked, but he kept on. “You can—you can fuck me, use me, whatever, I’ll take the punishment, please, just leave Dean alone—”

“I will punish you regardless,” Castiel said coldly, and kicked Sam over. Sam fell heavily onto his side and made to get up again, desperation clamping his chest and tears smearing on his cheekbones, but Castiel pinned him down with his grace. His eyes looked bloodshot with rage, but black rather than red, and, confused, Sam blinked the tears out of his eyes to try to see better. The black was gone by the time he’d succeeded, leaving only Castiel’s furious countenance. “You’ll stay here until I return.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, and Sam? Since you clearly appreciate none of what I’ve done for you, let this be a lesson in gratitude.”

Sam felt it like water draining out of his mind, the presence of the grace Castiel had left him as a replacement for the wall leaving him, and his eyes widened, breath catching. The door clanged shut behind Castiel with the ringing thud of a metal bolt falling into place, plunging the room into complete darkness, and Sam felt the last of Castiel’s grace slip away from him entirely, both the weight pinning him to the floor and the wall staving off the hallucinations.

It took a minute, and then flames began to flicker at the edges of his vision.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and curled into a tight ball on the ground, the tears coming faster.

He could already hear Michael and Lucifer laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi, Castiel _could_ just touch Sam's forehead and read Sam's mind like that but why would he do that when he could grope Sam's soul instead.
> 
> i could probably use a beta for this


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they have the sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> earning that explicit rating today!

Sam crammed himself into the corner, forearms clamped over his ears, hands folded over his head, eyes squeezed shut again. Lucifer had let up for a minute, the archangel distracted by something Sam could not fathom—probably Michael having started singing _glory, glory_ again, his constant refusal to acknowledge that God had truly abandoned him being one of the things that most infuriated Lucifer.

So Sam only had to deal with the fire, and compared to Lucifer’s attentions that was practically soothing. The corner helped too; being able to put his back against a wall made Sam feel better, never mind that to archangels walls were no more an obstacle than a piece of paper.

 _They’re gone for now though,_ he told himself. _You’ve got a moment to rest, and even when it starts up again, you’ve played this game before…_

His head dropped further, chin resting against his chest, despairing. The tears in the corners of his eyes evaporated away as quickly as they came. He was in Hell. He was in Hell, and he was trapped, and it was going to be like this _forever_ , even though Sam had already been here for forever, and he was never getting out, and it was his own fault. He had released Lucifer, and had taken responsibility for releasing Lucifer, and this is what he got.

A touch to his knees had Sam flinching and scrambling backwards against the wall he was already pressed against, eyes squeezed tighter shut than before.

“Open your eyes, Sam,” Lucifer sang.

“Five more minutes,” Sam snarked, not uncurling. He would be punished for that, of course, but he could never stay quiet and respectful for long. He could never simply lie down and take what they wanted to do to him, especially when, in the end, his actions made no difference.

“Sam,” the angel said again, sounding different than before. The hand on his knee tightened in impatience and Sam realized if he didn’t want to start the session with a shattered kneecap he had to look up.

He couldn’t stop a whimper from escaping him when he did. Cas frowned at him, the illumination from the door behind him casting his face in shadow. God, he hated when Lucifer did loved ones; he’d take degloving any day over hearing a litany of his faults from the mouths of everyone he’d ever loved. Hearing it from Dean was always the worst, but the day Lucifer had found about the crush on Cas that Sam was nursing….

“Should’ve expected this,” muttered Castiel (no, Lucifer, he couldn’t let himself forget it was just Lucifer fucking with him), and Sam’s heart plummeted. _He’s upset with you already and you haven’t even done anything yet, you fucking useless piece of shit…_

Castiel removed his hand from Sam’s knee, pressed two fingers to Sam’s forehead, and Sam, helplessness well-learned, closed his eyes and let him.

The flames melted away and the distant sound of Michael singing faded with them, leaving only the concrete cell and Castiel crouched in front of him. Sam blinked, staring uncomprehendingly. Exasperation flashed across Castiel’s face, triggering a terrified flip in Sam’s stomach, and then the memory of why he was in this cell crashed back in on him.

Castiel was back.

Dean was dead.

Sam slumped. The terror gave way to a leaden ache in his chest. If he’d just left well enough alone and kept his head down, Castiel would never have suspected Dean, but instead he’d poked his nose where he shouldn’t have, and he’d gotten his brother killed after all. And now Castiel was back to do something awful to him. Sam felt strangely unemotional about that.

“Where did Dean go?” he asked dully.

Castiel’s brow creased. “What do you mean, where did Dean go?”

He probably was in Hell, because the Winchester Heaven was already occupied by Sam, and there was no way Castiel would let them share when this was meant to be a punishment. Unless, it occurred to him, _these_ were his new quarters, and he was never going back to his comfortable memories.

“Did you send him to Hell?”

“Dean’s alive,” Castiel said.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “I thought—”

“I promised you he would not be destroyed, don’t you remember?” Castiel looked disappointed, and Sam had to clamp down on the apology that sprang to the tip of his tongue.

“What did you do, then?”

“I went to Singer Salvage Yard and I destroyed the research and the ingredients they had gathered,” Castiel said. “Then I struck Dean blind. It is typical for one who is willfully blind to the spirit to be physically blinded as well.”

Sam swallowed. “A-and Bobby?”

“A warning, as he was not an instigator but merely an accomplice. I trust there will not be a next time, but if there was, the punishment would be more severe. Am I understood?” He waited for Sam’s nod, and then stood up. “There is still the matter of your involvement.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, drawing his knees back up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

“I have been nothing but generous,” Castiel said. “You are safe and provided for. I protected you from your memories of the Cage. I gave you access to books that no other human has ever seen before. The garden planted by God himself. I let you maintain contact with your brother, even. And you betray me?”

 _You betrayed us first,_ Sam thought. But he didn’t really have a case for himself, too exhausted and drained of feeling to muster any argument. Castiel would do as he would, and Dean had already become collateral because of Sam’s actions. Better to keep his idiot mouth shut.

Castiel sighed. “I hoped if I gave you enough time you would understand and come willingly, but clearly this isn’t working.” He produced something from inside his coat, the object catching the dim light from the doorway and glinting.

Sam stiffened, breath caught in his throat.

A collar dangled from Castiel’s fingers, a wide band of black suede overlaid by a thinner metal band, a ring in the front bisecting the metal. It was hard to make out the clasp in the dim light, but Sam had a horrible feeling that it would lock. He suddenly found that he had feelings about the punishment Castiel intended for him after all, and they were unpleasant.

“No,” he said, and would have backed up if he wasn’t already cornered. “I’m not wearing that.”

“I didn’t ask,” Castiel said.

Sam struggled, kicking and shoving at Castiel, trying to keep him and the collar at arms’ length. It took Castiel less than a second to pin him, grace freezing Sam’s arms in place, and then, when Sam tried to bite him, resorted to plain physical strength to jerk Sam’s chin up with enough force to make his teeth clack.

With a care and gentleness incongruous with the way he’d manhandled Sam, Castiel brushed Sam’s hair away to prevent it getting caught and slid the collar around his neck. He closed it in the front, and Sam’s vision disappeared in a flash of bright white— _That’ll be the lock,_ Sam thought bitterly—before the light subsided as Castiel rotated the collar to orient the clasp in the back.

As soon as Castiel let his grace lapse, sitting back on his heels, Sam grabbed at the back of the collar. It was utterly seamless. Whatever clasp it used to have had disappeared, with not even a seam for Sam’s scrabbling fingers to catch on.

“Leave it alone,” Castiel said. “It’s forged out of my grace. It responds only to me.”

Reluctantly, Sam let his hand drop. “I’m not a dog.”

“No. You’re mine.”

“You needed a collar to prove it?”

“Angels don’t usually do this with each other,” Castiel said.

“Way to make a guy feel special,” Sam shot back, his words lent venom by the weight of the collar pressing against his throat with each syllable.

Castiel backhanded him. Pain burst hotly across his cheekbone and then his lip as he bit it in surprise. Sam stilled, shocked, and then spat blood on the floor between Castiel’s boots.

“Shut up,” Castiel said, conversationally. “As I was saying, collars and chains are things that humans invented, not angels, and I would prefer not to do this with props. But it seems you need a reminder of what your place is in this.”

Sam almost interjected, before the angry pulse of his bruised cheekbone made him think better of it. Castiel went on as if he had not noticed Sam’s near outburst. “I regret that it had to come to this, but I think it will be good for both of us. Since giving you space is clearly not working, I need to be more attentive. You won’t leave my side from now on.”

Face throbbing, Sam glared at him. “What do you expect to accomplish with this?”

“I’ve already told you what I want from you.”

“This isn’t going to get you that.”

“We can start with obedience,” Castiel said, earnest and oblivious. “The rest will come later. I can be patient.”

He reached out, cupping Sam’s cheek in his hand and healing the injury he’d inflicted before Sam could jerk away. The cessation of pain left Sam briefly lax, and Castiel took the opportunity to stand and fly them elsewhere.

Sam blinked rapidly as the light of surroundings much brighter than the dank little prison cell stung his eyes. When his vision cleared, it revealed the absolute last thing Sam had wanted to see.

A bedroom.

It was a good size, bright and airy with large windows bordered with lightweight curtains and outlined with windowsills full of potted plants (though whatever view they looked out on appeared only as a formless aurora to Sam). Shelves fixed to the walls and hooks in the ceiling held more flowers, and an odd buzzing sound made Sam think there might be bees in the African violets. A couple of armchairs filled one corner; a desk occupied another.

And in the center, a king-sized bed. Sam eyed it like it was going to go for his throat at any moment. “Where are we?” he demanded.

Castiel turned to drape his coats over the desk chair, and Sam seized the opportunity to move as far away from the bed as he could, ending up in the corner with the armchairs.

“This is my bower,” Castiel said, casting a small, almost shy smile at Sam over his shoulder. After a short pause, in which Sam was silent, he added, “The bowers are our private spaces. Usually the only other being allowed into an angel’s bower is their partner.”

Ignoring the last part, Sam chose to be flip as he ran his hand over the woven upholstery of Castiel’s armchairs. “Is your room full of bees? That’ll affect my opinion of it.”

“Only constructs of bees. I enjoy having a reminder of them around.”

Castiel’s voice had become significantly colder, and despite his spiteful desire to lash out verbally, Sam knew how to pick his battles. “It’s…really cozy.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said with dignity, and sat on the bed in only his button-down and slacks. They fit him very well, but Sam felt too threatened by the shedding of layers to admire him. “Come over here.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m okay over here.”

“Did you, or did you not, swear your obedience to me?”

“I—sorry.” Sam inched across the room until he stood closer to the footboard than the wall, then stopped again, deeply reluctant to approach further.

“Onto the bed. And take your shirt off.”

He’d known from the moment he’d seen the bed that this was where Castiel was headed, and he still recoiled like Castiel had hit him, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “No. I can’t. I’m not doing that. Please.”

“I intend to fuck you, Sam,” Castiel said, the crude word out of his mouth making Sam flinch. “I desire you, and since getting you to come to me yourself wasn’t working, we are going to do it this way. But if you would prefer to break our contract and have me return to Dean—”

_All he wants is sex._

They were here, now, in this position, because of Sam. Sam was the one who’d pushed too far, set Castiel off, upset the balance. And all he was asking of Sam was something that Sam had done a hundred thousand times over.

Castiel had said he wouldn’t destroy Dean, but Sam had no reason to believe that Castiel would keep that promise if Sam continued to push him. He couldn’t throw Dean under the bus again.

Swallowing hard, Sam raised shaking fingers to the top button of his shirt. He peeled it off slowly, like a scab. Then his undershirt, and then Sam stood before Castiel with nothing but his jeans on. Lowering his arms to his side, Sam stared at the bed and tried to make himself take the next step towards it.

Castiel rolled his eyes, and the next thing Sam knew he was flat on his back on the bed, the mattress springing under him. Looming over him, Castiel placed a hand over Sam’s clavicle reverently.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Sam,” he said. Sam swallowed. “This isn’t a punishment.”

“You’re going to rape me,” Sam forced out, chest tight. “Let’s not pretend.”

Castiel silenced him with a kiss, that Sam struggled briefly against before remembering Castiel’s threat. “I won’t hurt you,” he repeated, reaching down.

Sam stared at the ceiling as Castiel disappeared his jeans and sought out his ass with his fingers. Dissociating was easy, slipping sideways through the surreality of the scenario like blinking. Castiel’s fingers pressed against Sam’s opening, and the unreality grew more pronounced. Detachedly, he cataloged the sensations. Castiel was warm, almost burningly so, and his hand was slippery with something. Whatever it was, the entrance of Castiel’s finger was accompanied with a surge of electric sensation almost painful, and Sam jerked, hands fisting in the sheets. “What was that?”

“It’s only grace,” Castiel said, adding another finger and starting to stretch. “Be still.”

Sam subsided into the pillows, trying to return to the dissociative state he’d nearly managed to achieve, but the heightened sensitivity caused by Castiel’s grace and his resulting erection was making it difficult. He was making embarrassing noises.

“Beautiful,” Castiel murmured. A third finger, and at some point Castiel’s clothes had vanished to wherever Sam’s jeans had gone. He pressed himself up against Sam, mouth latching onto his neck just above the collar, the two of them skin to skin. The angel burned like a furnace, every touch like a miniature version of the pure, burning, consumptive wave of grace that accompanied possession, lighting up Sam’s body—Sam’s soul—in a way a human touch never could. Sam squirmed underneath Castiel, overwhelmed, and gasped as his dick rubbed against Castiel’s body.

Castiel chuckled against Sam’s collar, and reached down with his other hand to stroke Sam, fingers rubbing against his prostate. Sam choked out a strangled groan, head thrown back against the pillows, the needy, aching pulse of arousal overwhelming.

“Please… please stop…”

Castiel practically purred, and the pads of his fingers glowed suddenly white, electricity racing between them. Sam moaned and came, spilling all over Castiel’s hands.

« _Brighter and more lovely than the Morning Star._ » He kissed at the corner of Sam’s jaw, wiping the come on his hand over the nearest portion of Sam’s skin.

Samfroze at the Enochian, seizing out of the post-orgasm afterglow into a full-body flinch. The only one who had ever spoken Enochian to him was Lucifer, who would never lower himself to speaking a human language, and Sam felt himself begin to slip sideways again.

Lucifer had never called him beautiful. He was not with Lucifer. It was not Lucifer violating him.

It was Castiel, and that was worse, and tears sprang to Sam’s eyes.

« _Your soul sings with your pleasure_ ,» Castiel continued, seeming not to notice how tense Sam had gotten. « _Your surrender to sensation…so human. Exquisite._ »

Sam was suddenly disgusted by it all; the salt crystallizing on his cheeks where he’d been crying earlier, sweat gathering on his neck chafing under the collar’s edges despite the softness of the leather, Castiel’s dick smearing precome over his thigh, Sam’s own come all over them both. The fading pleasure of his orgasm tasted sour in the back of his mouth. He felt sticky and base and Castiel was using Lucifer’s words and then, slowly, Castiel withdrew his fingers.

He resettled himself above Sam, pulling Sam’s legs up and around his waist. The head of his cock bumped against Sam’s hole, and Sam tensed further, fingernails digging into his palms through the bedsheets clenched in his fists.

“Please, Cas,” Sam forced out, not knowing what he was asking for.

“Shh,” Castiel said, leaning down to kiss him silent again, and pushed forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my outline now only contains the climax and the denouement so it is time to do an unholy amount of Plot Fiddling. if there was something you really really wanted to see speak now or forever hold your peace or whatever they say, thanks for reading, socks out


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they have another conversation, and Sam has a horrible, no good, very bad morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, it is me, it is your friendly neighborhood socks, dragging myself out of the depths to weakly croak out the words “not...dead...yet….” here are 3.4 thousand words for you. (i actually hate this chapter and have been looking at it for way too fucking long and i must purge it from my life by throwing it out to the internet wolves. if this hits the wrong emotional beat then my entire act 3 is fucked. murry chrestmas heppy holideys enjoy chapter 9)

Sam’s first hint of consciousness was the feeling of chilled shoulders, covers shucked down to his waist at some point during the night. Drowsy and annoyed, he shifted his legs, trying to wiggle the covers up higher, and froze.

Someone was touching him.

Sam sucked in a breath, opening his eyes. He was flat on his back in Castiel’s bed as Castiel leaned over him, kissing-distance, smiling. Several sensations assaulted him at once, and he struggled to sort through them. Castiel was stroking his dick, but of more pressing concern was Castiel’s other hand resting on his chest and the well of feeling underneath, aching and overfull like he was going to cry, raw and exposed.

Castiel’s smile widened as Sam fought to process the too-familiar feeling of an angel brushing against his soul, and closed the distance between to kiss the corner of Sam’s mouth. As he did so, the fingers on Sam’s chest sunk deeper, and the contact reverberated through Sam’s core.

The soul-groping was what did it. Cold with panic and fury and acting on instinct, Sam raised his hands and shoved, knocking the caught off-guard Castiel aside. In the same movement he kicked out, freeing himself from the sheets and propelling himself off the bed to land awkwardly on the floor. Sam hissed, carpet burn on his elbow cutting through the adrenaline. He scrambled to a more upright position, only for it to hit him that he was still in Castiel’s bower, and there was no escape route.

Castiel appeared over the side of the bed, his face terrifyingly blank of emotion, and Sam scuttled backwards, heart in his throat as the potential consequences of his reckless, instinctive action hit him. Castiel shot out an arm and caught the loop on the front of Sam’s collar.

Sam’s neck cracked at the sudden force, flare of pain hot at the base of his head. He hissed, body moving to follow Castiel’s tug to avoid further injury, but it turned out not to matter. A blink and he was flat on his back on the bed again, panting as his stomach clenched with nausea over the sudden relocation and the head-spinning realization that he was back exactly where he had least wanted to be, and there was nothing he could have done to stop it.

“Stay,” Castiel snapped—an unnecessary command. Sam couldn’t move an inch, grace pinning him to the sheets like an insect. Castiel got off the bed and disappeared; Sam tried to turn his head to follow his movements and couldn’t, heartbeat skipping in horrified anticipation.

Castiel came back with something clenched in his hand, an item Sam couldn’t identify until Castiel was kneeling over him again. He dropped the item on the mattress—it was a chain, of a weight somewhere between heavy jewelry and a bike chain, and Sam squirmed. He could do nothing to stop Castiel from manhandling him, tugging this way and that. He positioned Sam’s arms above his head, wrists crossed against the headboard exactly as Castiel wanted. The chain went around Sam’s wrists and pulled tight, and Castiel secured it to the headboard and let the end of it fall to the pillow, releasing Sam from the hold of his grace.

Sam made use of the freedom to turn his head against the pillow and examine the chain. The chain’s last link attached to a large trigger clip hook. Not the delicate finding of a jewelry clasp, but a clip of the size and weight usually only seen on—dog leashes.

His mind went blank, like he was reading the clues of a logic puzzle over and over, seeing the place where a connection should be made but unable to articulate what it was.

Not just a chain, but a chain leash.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that after wrists, the next thing that piece of hardware secured would be someone’s neck.

_ “Someone’s” neck. Your neck, you fucking idiot, _ a voice in Sam’s head said, and he tried to open his mouth, wanting to say, “What the fuck, Cas,” but he found his jaw still wouldn’t work. Before he could try again, Castiel loomed over him again, his face filling Sam’s whole field of view. “Shut up,” he said, conversationally.

Sam fumed. But Castiel’s change of mood and the bondage had already left his chest tight with fear, hands tugging fruitlessly against the chain, and he didn’t dare make it worse with defiance. He did glare, but Castiel ignored him and slid down his body.

Oh. Oh no. Sam immediately reneged on his decision and struggled, kicking and flailing away. Castiel pinned Sam’s hips to the bed with one hand, seeming impervious to Sam’s increasingly uncoordinated attempts to kick him. Meeting Sam’s eyes deliberately, he leaned down and sucked Sam’s cock into his mouth.

Sam groaned, throwing his head back onto the pillow as his entire body tensed. A couple of tears squeezed out the very corner of his eyes, clamped shut. He was weak and his body was weak, and he could not prevent himself from responding, hardening in Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel did not tease, no interest in edging or foreplay. He pulled off once, then took Sam’s cock all the way down his throat and stayed there, swallowing around the head. Sam’s fingernails dug half-moons into the meat of his palms, the jolt of arousal an earthquake Sam could not shore up his walls against.

Using his grace as lube again, Castiel rubbed two fingers against Sam’s hole and smirked at Sam’s full-body flinch. Impervious to Sam’s wriggling, he swallowed around his cock and began bobbing, seeking Sam’s prostate with his fingers. The hand holding him down on the bed pressed bruises into Sam’s hips.

Sam shoved his face into his arm, blocking out his surroundings. He couldn’t fight it forever. Castiel’s tongue flicked over his sensitive head, the fingers inside him burning electric, his lower half feeling liquified by sensation.

His body tensed, shaking, and he came with a cry.

Castiel swallowed it all and let Sam’s limp cock fall from his mouth. He didn’t move away from between Sam’s legs, though, hands beginning to wander, thumbs sliding through the sweat on Sam’s belly.

Sam huffed a breath through his nose, face still tucked into his arm. Forced himself to calm down, his breathing to return to a normal rate. “Get off,” he said resentfully, not looking up.

He didn’t see what expression Castiel made in response to that. From the complete lack of hesitation in Castiel knee-walking back up to the headboard, not bothering to put even an entire inch of distance between himself and Sam as he did so, Sam suspected it was something like an eyeroll. He didn’t look up from his arm as fingers worked at the chain wrapped around his wrists, refusing to give Castiel the satisfaction of seeing his face.

The chain fell away. “Was that so bad?” Castiel asked, mattress dipping as he sat back on his heels.

Sam pulled his arms back and shifted his gaze from inner elbow to ceiling as he rubbed the red marks on his wrists. Castiel sighed in exasperation. “Most would not be so put out over waking up to an orgasm.”

“You don’t get it, do you,” Sam said flatly.

“You feel that I have violated your autonomy.” Castiel shifted to lay on his side next to Sam, resting his head on one hand. “You forget. You may have broken the terms of our deal, but I have not.” He reached over to touch Sam, Sam’s abdominal muscles jumping as he tried to shy away from the contact. Sweat and semen disappeared and Castiel's hand came to rest with fingers twined in Sam’s pubic hair. Casual. Possessive. “ _ Everything you have to give _ . What do you think that means, Sam?”

Sam knew the answer Castiel was looking for, but with a question that loaded, he almost preferred to pretend he didn’t. He skirted explicit acknowledgment of ownership and said, “You want me to just—let you do whatever you want.” Even that made him feel pathetic and slimy.

Castiel nuzzled closer, nose brushing against Sam’s neck just above the collar. “Be upset if you like, but you belong to me.”

“Just like Lucifer used to say,” Sam muttered to the ceiling, and regretted the unflattering comparison immediately. There was shockingly little reaction from Castiel, though, and Sam turned his head to see the expression on his face.

Castiel looked at him expectantly, like Sam was the one that was supposed to have something to say. Sam didn’t respond, and finally Castiel said, “The nature of your relationship with Lucifer is not news to me, Sam.”

“…What?”

“You think I didn’t see your suffering when I tried to pull you from the Cage?”

Sam flinched like Castiel had slapped him, mind whirling through everything Lucifer had ever inflicted on him, what Castiel could possibly have seen. Had he seen Sam lashed to a rack or wheel? Seen him kneeling and begging them?

…Seen Lucifer rape him?

Castiel did not expound, and Sam found his voice, turning on his side to face Castiel totally. He opened his mouth, not sure what he wanted to say. Did he want to ask what Castiel had witnessed? Did he want to know that? Did he want to relive whatever it had been out of Castiel's mouth?

The question that came out instead was a good deal more confrontational.

“You knew and you did this to me anyways?”

Castiel inclined his head, shrugged. “If one master abuses a dog, should that dog never have a master?”

“ _ I’m not a fucking dog _ !”

Something in Castiel’s face went flat, and he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. Sam clenched his fists in the sheets, glaring to hide the lurch in his stomach at the sudden change in dynamic.

Not looking at Sam, Castiel walked away from the bed. He put his clothes back on the mundane way, fastening his white dress shirt button by button.

His hands fell back to his sides.

Then he returned, threat so obvious Sam almost vibrated with the surge of adrenaline telling him to fight or flee. But he stayed frozen on the bed while Castiel fished around in the covers. Castiel found what he was looking for and leaned back over, glint of chain in his hand, and Sam’s survival instincts finally kicked in. Too late, he jerked backwards into the mattress. The latch clicked shut, the smart clink of metal against metal like a gunshot in the quiet room. Sam recoiled like it had been a gunshot as a flash of light exploded in his face—just like when Castiel locked the collar—and was brought up short. Even as he reached up for the clasp, Sam knew before he touched it that he wouldn’t be able to unlatch it.

The lever wouldn’t even depress, and he dropped his hand, struggling to process even a fraction of his emotions.

Castiel straightened up, taking a couple of paces back from the bed, and yanked on the chain, expression still flat and dangerous. “Come.”

The collar constrained Sam’s nervous swallow. He obeyed, the collar and Castiel’s clothed state making him hyper-aware of his nudity.

“Kneel,” Castiel added, and Sam did with some reluctance. The leash tugged as he lowered himself to the floor, held taut in Castiel’s fist, a cruel reminder that he was totally, completely, utterly trapped.

Castiel’s hand caught his chin, forced him to look up and meet Castiel's eyes. “Have I treated you, Sam, ‘just like Lucifer’ did?”

_ Yes _ , Sam wanted to say, because Castiel had taken control of Sam’s entire life, made effort after effort to possess him entirely.

At the same time, despite whatever Castiel had done, even the rape…

…Lucifer had  _ tortured _ him.

He fell back on sarcasm, gritting out, “What are you going to do to me if I say yes?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “I am simply trying to reach a point of understanding between us.”

Sam tried to yank his chin out of Castiel’s grip and succeeded only in bruising his own jaw. “Fine,” he snapped. “No. No, you haven’t. That doesn’t mean it’s not fucked up, Cas.”

Castiel made no reaction either way to Sam’s invectives, expression as implacable and unchanging as his iron grip on the leash and Sam’s face. “Have my demands been unreasonable?”

“No.” He didn’t make eye contact, staring mutinously at the wall over Castiel’s shoulder.

“Has anything egregious happened since we entered into this contract?”

Sam’s eyes slid to the left.

“Answer me, Sam.”

“My brother was struck blind and I’m in a collar,” Sam muttered.

“Whose fault was that?” Castiel countered. “Purgatory—the souls. You were adamant that I should not work with Crowley or do as I intended to, as I had to, in order to win the war. Now that it has come to pass, has a new apocalypse started?”

There had not been a second apocalypse, but… “No new apocalypse is a low bar.”

Sarcastic as he was, the question left him off-kilter. Sam cast his memory back over the last couple of months, trying to recall the reasons he had had for distrusting Castiel-as-God and the associated regime. Working with Crowley—bad, yes, though something the Winchesters had done themselves. Trying to open Purgatory—by all indications, a potentially apocalyptically bad idea. Just the work Castiel and Crowley had done  _ finding _ Purgatory had unleashed dozens of monsters that even Bobby had never seen before, not even mentioning Eve herself.

But in hindsight, nothing apparent had gone wrong when Castiel opened the portal; no primordial evil hitched a ride through to the other side, and personality change aside Castiel seemed none the worse for absorbing so many souls. He had done what he said he would do with the souls; killed Raphael, won Heaven’s civil war. And Raphael had himself been intending to restart the apocalypse that Sam had spend hundreds of years in the Cage preventing. Even declaring himself God wasn’t as insane as it seemed; when the rebel faction of angels deposed Raphael, their leader should naturally have taken the archangel’s place as leader of Heaven, and that had been Castiel.

Jumping from Viceroy—the title Michael had held in God’s absence—to new God was extreme, but otherwise….

But of course, the first thing Castiel had done as God was order the Winchesters to their knees on pain of death, which was a hostile start to a new regime if Sam had ever seen one. 

So there were the red flags, which remained concerning no matter how Sam looked at them. Castiel spying on them prior to the ritual, the abrupt personality change, the unknown variable of forty million souls absorbed into an angel, the fostering of cults and the sanction of animal sacrifice, and his treatment of Sam.

But really, had Castiel done anything more serious than any other run-of-the-mill possessive boyfriend? Anything that had turned out to be more than Sam panicking over this or that thing that reminded him of Lucifer? Even anything bad that didn’t directly affect or involve Sam personally?

“No,” Sam said at last, feeling and sounding lost as he admitted it. Had he been fighting for nothing? Was anything really wrong at all? He felt jumbled, like a piece of the puzzle was missing.

_ This is what gaslighting feels like. _

But he didn’t have time or space to untangle that at the moment. He had only his own confusion and Castiel’s disapproval, and grasped at appeasement.

“No, what?”

“Nothing—nothing egregious has happened since we signed the contract.”

Castiel released his grip on Sam’s chin, slackened the leash by a few inches. “I understand that this is an adjustment. But I will not tolerate you acting as if I am a despot. I have ruled Heaven and Earth fairly, and all I have done in regards to  _ you, _ I have done for your benefit. If this—” he jangled the leash, “—is what is necessary for you to accept that, then so be it. Do you understand?”

“Really?” Sam shot back, incensed again. “Stripping me naked in front of a crowd was for  _ my _ benefit?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed again. “Careful.”

“Putting a  _ collar _ on me was for  _ my _ benefit?” Sam’s voice rose.

“I can always return to Dean, if you prefer,” Castiel growled.

“The contract says you can’t destroy him for my actions,” Sam snapped, defiance slipping slightly in favor of pleading.

“Don’t test my generosity.” Castiel gave the leash a cruel yank. “There is much I could do short of destroying him.”

Sam glared furiously but was silent.

“Regardless, the collar  _ is _ for your benefit,” Castiel said. “Your difficulty accepting the terms of the contract that  _ you _ dictated is causing you a great deal of distress, and it is important to set clear boundaries. Consider  _ this _ your first lesson.”

Sam blinked, confused for the span of an instant, and then the collar blazed with heat and every muscle in his body tensed. Pain shot through him, pulsing from the collar, and Sam opened his mouth in a scream that never made it out of his clenched throat.

He came back to himself panting, curled almost in half over his knees. Sweat glued his hair to his forehead and tear tracks stood out on his cheeks. He caught his breath, staring at the floor, and let out a disbelieving laugh. So this was the new status quo.

Fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck caught him by surprise, and he straightened, knocking the hand away.

Castiel seemed unoffended, regarding Sam expectantly.

It took Sam a minute to figure out what Castiel wanted, and his shoulders slumped. He sighed internally, looked away from Castiel to the orchids balancing on the windowsill to compose himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It won’t—I’ll do better.”

He had intended to continue; he was practiced in apologies, knew the scripts for admitting his mistakes by heart. But he couldn’t make the words come. If Castiel wanted more he would have to make him.

A nod, and Castiel unclipped the leash, gesturing to the armchair where Sam had left his shirt the night before. “Get dressed. I have a meeting with my generals soon.”

Sam stood up slowly and made his way over to the armchair. His flannel shirt was not there, but his jeans were. No shoes or socks, and the replacement shirt was a short-sleeved tee made of that flimsy stretch material. It was a far thinner layer than he was used to even for pajamas, leaving him feeling vulnerable. Its V-neck dipped well below the collar, and Sam tugged at it in frustration, like that would make it into the turtleneck he wished it was.

He didn’t consider asking Castiel for the missing items. If they hadn’t been provided, odds were that had been on purpose, and asking would probably only antagonize him further.

Once clothed, he padded barefoot across the room to where Castiel was adjusting tie and trench coat, and at a look from Castiel, obediently tilted his head and allowed Castiel to clip the leash back in place. Castiel smoothed a lock of Sam’s hair out of his face, leaving it fresh and cleaned of sweat as he did so, and smiled approvingly.  _ «My beautiful one» _ he said.

Sam fought to maintain eye contact and failed, eyes dropping in shame under Castiel’s fond gaze. Castiel stroked through his hair one more time. “You can sit where and how you like during the meeting, but the leash stays on.” Voice dropping almost shyly, he added, “It would please me if you knelt with me as you have before, though.”

Sam nodded, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. Kneel at the foot of Castiel’s chair in front of other angels—old hat, by now. Kneel in a collar at the end of a chain… doable, still, of course. Sam knew the limits of his body and mind and they lay well beyond that. He still couldn’t ward off the hot flush of humiliation at the prospect, and his hand rose unbidden to fiddle nervously with the collar.

“You need not be ashamed,” Castiel promised. “I will have the wings of any angel that mocks you nailed to the gates of Heaven.” 

Sam lowered his hand. That did… not make him feel better. 

He nodded anyways.

Best behavior.

Castiel took flight.


End file.
